


The Day the Horse-Lord wed the Lady of the Seas

by Magdalenara



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Culture Shock, F/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-18
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:35:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 128,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27087217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Magdalenara/pseuds/Magdalenara
Summary: After the War of the Ring, Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth, finds herself at the receiving end of the search for peace and prosperity by being used as a pawn in an alliance made between kings and princes. Married to the King of the Riddermark, Éomer, she has to navigate being a foreigner in a foreign country, being a Queen to a King, and to learn to live and love with a man she hardly knows.
Relationships: Éomer Éadig & Lothíriel, Éomer Éadig/Lothíriel, Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 164
Kudos: 131





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own this world, that's Tolkien's thing. I simply breathe life into a story I wish would have been written. I do not own the characters (well, some of them I do own, but who's splitting hairs?), I simply write them down as they have been running amok in my head for years now.

**The Day the Horse-Lord wed the Lady of the Seas**

by Magdalenara

1\. So far from the Sea

Despite the hot water the woman in the bathtub shivered almost involuntarily, and with a defeated sigh she sank deeper into the steaming masses to wring the cold out of her. Her bathing shirt, that had stuck to her like a second, icy skin, now billowed around her for a moment, before deflating again and, alongside her form, floated like a feather in the warm bathwater. She closed her eyes, willing herself to relax, to push the cold – as it would seem – out of her very bones. But even though a roaring fire burned in the fireplace in front of her, and all windows had been shut fast, and the water around her seemed to have been heated by _Aulë’s_ smithy himself, she could not but feel cold and uncomfortable. With another defeated sigh, Lothíriel, Princess of Dol Amroth, opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling of her chamber, reminding herself once more, painfully, that she had to stop thinking of herself as such, for she was no longer a Princess and Dol Amroth was no longer a home to her.

It had been some two weeks now since she had come to this place, and since she had been given to the Horse-Lord they called King – and even after all that time, she still knew practically nothing of this land that they called the Riddermark, and she knew even less about the King of the Mark that she now called husband. Often she had found herself watching her husband in the night – when sleep was hard to come by – that silent brute from the North: he never talked much, and he appeared grim and cold to her, just like his country, empty and joyless, a forlorn place bereft of light and lightness. It had been hard to bring in line the romantic notions of love the bards sang of with the sombre reality of marriage; but then again, she had had no such romantic ideas of love and marriage to begin with.

Her marriage had not been one made for love, but for politics and practicality. The new King of the Riddermark had been in need of a wife, and the Kingdom of Gondor, of which she was a citizen, and a Princess (even if only of a lesser royal house), had been in need of strengthening the relationship of both kingdoms, not to forget the ambitions of her own father. Her say in the matter had been of little consequence and she had obliged with a sense of daughterly duty, and what little protest she had had, had made way to sober resignation and finally acceptance. That was not to say that she went into this whole affair without apprehension.

She had heard her maids talking about it, gossiping about the brute from the North who would wed their Lady; they had giggled and wondered, when they believed their Lady wasn't listening, whether the Rohirrim took their women like their stallions mated with their mares. Her father, the Prince Imrahil, had given both girls a stern talking-to afterwards, but it hadn't changed much, and what had been done could not be undone – and so it was that the Princess thought with fear of her coming wedding and she dreaded the day that she would be given to the Horse-Lord of the far away North, a man she did not know or love, and a land that was not her own.

She remembered well (and would so for the rest of her life) her father’s last words, hissed towards her as he had let her down the aisle of the hall of Meduseld, towards that stranger-husband waiting at the dais before the throne (for her, the future queen, there had only been a thin wooden stool): _Never forget – your king is your husband, and your husband is your king._ With a bitter laugh catching somewhere deep in her throat, she thought of the actual ceremony, if one could call it that; and if the poor stool next to the wooden throne had not been sign enough for her, the ceremony most definitely was.

It was over quicker than the splash of a tidal wave and with a flash that passed her by in state of detachment, all words had been said and all customs and traditions had been honoured, which had not been many, to be honest. The Rohirrim, though aware of all the _Valar_ and _Iluvatar_ the Creator, had nonetheless chosen _Oromë_ , whom they called _Béma_ , as their god and patron, and thus had fewer rituals to honour to invoke a blessing for the marriage. And even though they had spared a thought to her own faith of _Ulmo_ , Lord of Waters, by allowing the ritual drink of seawater by both bride and groom (her new husband, unaccustomed to the taste, had grimaced all the way through it), it was clear from the start on which faith and which traditions the real significance was placed in these lands. The customary horse racing between the groom and a member of the bride’s family afterwards had led to far more entertainment than her sombre traditions ever would – even though it was clear that her brother Erchirion, ever the champion warrior of her family, had let the king win quiet easily; however, Lothíriel doubted not that her new husband, being a horse lord and all, would not have needed it. Her brother Amrothos, she mused with unshaken certainty, would not have let him win so easily, but Amrothos, after all, had been one of the few people, too, who had not rejoiced at this marriage.

Frowning, she closed her eyes, shaking her head, trying to shake off the thoughts and memories in her mind – if she allowed herself to think of her brother Amrothos, or her home, she would only weep again, and she had sworn not to shed any more tears (since useless tears were a waster of water, after all, and that would be an affront to her god _Ulmo_ ). And so instead she thought back to that first night together, their wedding night, and how unaware she had been back then of the dealings between man and woman …

_… She had trembled then, as her King had led her down the hallway, all the way down to the Chambers that they were expected to share, in this night, and for all nights to come. She had trembled still in their Chambers, although a roaring fire had given off heat enough, and she had trembled even more at the sight of the huge king-size bed, draped with heavy cloths and brocade fabrics, painted in dark earthly colours with the banner of the Mark, and in the flickering light of the flames the white horse upon green had seemed to run wild, almost beast-like._

_Behind her she had heard her King start to undress, and she had taken the sounds as an unmistakable request and order of her King: with shaking hands and fingers stiffened by fear and nervousness she had taken more time than necessary to unfasten the heavy corded belt around her waist and to undo the laces at the back of her gown. Yet she had known that no matter how slow she was with her undressing, she still could not escape from this last duty of her wedding night, and at last the white fabric had fallen down to her feet, billowing around her ankles._

_It was in this moment that she had felt her King's gaze upon her and soon enough his large hand on her shoulder had made her turn around to him; immediately she had lowered her eyes in fear and embarrassment and it was all she could do not to wince, at his touch, at their closeness, at the nudity of their bodies, at the unexpected intimacy of this moment. Her King had at first only caressed her raven hair with admiring touch and she was once more reminded at how very different they both were: bright and dark, strong and cautious, spirited and shy, warrior and maiden. Soon enough his hands had wandered down: from her shoulders his fingers had gone down in a long line of caress, down to her fingertips and for a moment he had marvelled at the sensitive softness that spoke of a noblewoman's life. Then, after his hands had gone up her arms again, his touch had tentatively moved to her bosom, and she had felt his gaze upon her then, trying to gauge her reaction but she had never looked up, she simply had not been able to, feeling the red of her shame and embarrassment burn her cheeks. Her King, apparently, had been pleased well enough by what he saw, and felt, and thus he had taken her hand in his and led her to their marriage bed, to consummate their marriage and seal the bond newly-forged between them._

_She remembered the fear and embarrassment that had paralysed her as her King came to her, and though she had been rather hesitant, she yet did not deny him, for he was her husband and her husband was her King, and she was always the obedient wife. But she had had no cause for fear, for despite his rather hard look and gestures her King was yet gentle with her; and though there was no passion, no aim to pleasure her in his touch, and her King obliged to his task dutiful as a soldier, he yet respected her inexperience and fragility, and in her naivety and innocence she had neither the idea nor the courage to ask for more …_

A knock catapulted her out of her memories and her eyes snapped open; feeling the draft of cold air coming through the opened door before it was closed again, she shivered and sat up, ready to turn to tell her handmaid to bring her a towel and help her out of the bathtub. The only problem was, it was not her handmaid Madlen that had come and disturbed her moment of relative peace; in fact, it was none other than the King of the Riddermark himself.

‘My Lord.’, she spoke quickly, remembering her manners, albeit clearly startled by him; and his keen eyes did not miss that she pulled up her knees against her chest to hide herself from his sharp gaze. And even though he pretended not to notice her obvious reaction, he fought hard to keep a smile from his face. _Was she still shy to let him see her?_

Watching her now, amused, Éomer, son of Éomund, King of the Mark, remembered well the many times he had watched his wife, mesmerised by her. She was like no other woman he had met before; with her raven hair and eyes the colour of the darkest hours of night, her sun-kissed skin and air of softness, there was something out of this world about her, so out of place with the rough world around her. More beautiful than all the flowers of the plains of the Mark she appeared to him, more beautiful even than the Mearas, fairest of all horses they were – compared to her, all other women appeared plain. And yet, there was also an air of aloofness about her, a sort of composure and purity that felt reminiscent of that distant Elvish ancestry, or more so, as one in whom the regal race of Númenor seemed to almost run true. Verily, her queenly bearing seemed worthy only of a king, and Éomer knew he was far from kingly.

_… With a bitter sigh his thoughts wandered back to the day they had been wed: how fair she had looked that day, how very regal and ethereal, and how scared. He remembered well how very uncomfortable he had felt, like a farming horse pretending to be a shining stallion, waiting in front of the throne, along with Gandalf Greyhame, waiting for a bride he had hardly known – that he still hardly knew. It had not been his choice to marry, but then again, it had not been his choice either to be king; he had felt he had neither the makings of a good husband nor of a great king – but king he was, whether he wanted it or not, and a king was in need of a wife. The choice had been made by wiser, more seasoned men, and having lived all his life as a soldier, he had accepted his duty with gruff obligation. That was until he had met his bride back in her home; her refined manners and beauty, her family’s political finesse – none of it had made it easier to feel worthy of being called husband or king. But that was what he was, or would be, soon enough._

_When the door had been opened to the Golden Hall of Meduseld and at last there had come his young bride, with her father, the Prince Imrahil, always at her side, all uncomfortable feelings of not-belonging, of unworthiness, seemed to have vanished, eradicated by the sheer vision of her beauty. After all, he had to be kingly to be worthy of such regal beauty._

_The ceremony had been short enough, as was customary to the Rohirrim – they had no need of flowery, gallant words and empty beauteous phrases – and after Gandalf Greyhame had intertwined their hands, and both had spoken the traditional words, it was upon bride and groom to seal the newly-forged bond of marriage with a kiss. He had turned to his young bride then, dutiful as he was, and lifted the flimsy veil of blue silk. Truly, she was a beauty without equal, fair as the dawn, fair as the night, a beauty almost more than human, and yet not as far removed as those of the Elves. But the king remembered that she had not looked up, fearful as she was, and her deep blue eyes, as blue as the sea she seemed to have come from, had been hidden from his sight. He had gently put his hand under her chin and she had lifted her head, obedient as she was. Their kiss was no more than the chastest touch of lips on lips, and yet she had trembled as they broke apart again – as had he. She had been the first to retreat from this unfamiliar intimacy between them, eyes cast down with haste, and he had marvelled then at how beautifully her cheeks had flushed, and it had not been the first – nor the last – time that this new, strange feeling in his chest had roared…_

‘You better come out soon, Lothíriel, before the water’s getting cold.’, Éomer spoke then, forcing himself back from his memories and thoughts, forcing himself to focus on the naked woman in the bathtub that was his wife.

‘Of course, my Lord. I'll call for Madlen.’

‘Nonsense. I'm quite capable of handing you a towel myself.’, and as if to emphasise his point, he took a towel from a small stool nearby and proceeded to spread it before the bathtub, apparently waiting for her to come out and dry herself off.

She hesitated, her eyes searching his face, wondering whether he truly did not realise that he was making her uncomfortable or whether he simply did not care. Not for the first time did she resent the fact that for the King and Queen of the Riddermark there was only one shared royal chamber, and not two separate solars, as was customary in Southern courts. She remembered him telling her upon her inquiry that it was a safety issue and that the Rohirrim were modest in nature, but even then – and even more so now – she had found it to be barbaric and crude. But a small part of her admitted that it was not so much her manners and sense of propriety that rebelled against it but rather her wishing for a place, _her_ space, to retreat from his overbearing omnipresence.

At last giving in, she gave a long, defeated sigh before she rose up with a single, swift motion; the draught of the cool air made her shiver – or perhaps that was caused by something else? A smile played around in his eyes as he motioned his head towards her, and as quickly as she could she pulled the wet bathing shirt over her head and threw it on the ground next to the bath tub. He had never understood the use of bathing shirts – _why would you cover yourself when trying to scrub yourself clean?_ – and often wondered if that enforced sense of propriety meant that those Southerners fucked with their clothes on too?

As the water ran down her bare body, she had to fight against the urge to wrap her arms around herself, though whether to protect herself from the cold or his gaze she could not entirely say for sure. Truly, although she was desperately avoiding his gaze, she did not miss that he waited a moment longer than necessary before enveloping her in the folds of the towel, though it wasn’t long enough for her to be sure of it.

In fact, as soon as she was enwrapped in the towel her king and husband seemed not to care for her nakedness any more but rather attended to the task at hand as dutiful as a soldier; he rubbed her dry with as little passion as if she were a child – but perhaps, that came only natural to him, being an older brother to a younger sister and all. As he knelt down to dry her legs and feet, she blushed, having him so close to her – close to all of her he had already laid claim to – but she steeled herself and suppressed the urge to retreat from this situation.

Instead – and she didn’t quite know what had come over her – she found herself stretching out her hand towards him. She had always enjoyed watching him – after all, he was not an unattractive man – as long as he was not watching her, and sometimes the curious need became too strong: to know how those muscles felt beneath her touch, or whether his beard was as scratchy as she believed to remember it from their wedding’s kiss, or whether his hair felt as golden as it looked. As if in a trance of some unconscious emotion her fingers went into his mane and put a strand of his golden hair behind his ear, and when he looked up in response to her touch, his gaze, so intense and piercing, made her shiver and suck in her breath. She was unsure what emotion her face showed, but whatever he saw, it made his eyes darken and made him spring into action.

With a quick motion made of grace that belied his strength and height he rose, facing her, looking down at her, and as he did so, his arms wrapped the towel around her trembling form, and this act made her slightly sway towards him, as if to fall straight into his arms but he stopped her short of that. Instead his body appeared to stoop low, leaning towards her, and then his hands were around her and she was in his arms, being carried off towards their bedchamber. And there he placed her directly in front of the bed, carefully, as if she were a delicate thing (and compared to him, she mused that she was) and then, just like that, he pushed down the towel, letting it drop to the floor, taking her only protective layer of cloth, leaving her naked, vulnerable, open to his gaze. She trembled then, feeling his eyes wander all over her, and she did not know whether it was fear or the cold that made her shiver, or, perhaps, something else entirely? Her eyes were closed shut, trying to retreat from the intensity of this moment, trying to ignore the penetrating feeling of his eyes on her, bracing herself for the onslaught of her kingly husband’s advances.

But instead of pushing her onto the bed and burying her under him – as she had expected him to – he only mouthed a kiss on top of her raven hair, and with it a whisper that sounded like “bed”. Lothíriel needed no other words to be said, she understood. She was ever the obedient wife – even in their wedding night she had yielded to him obediently – and followed his orders; why should now be any different? After all, her king was her husband and her husband was her king. Dutifully, she went into the bed and crawled to the head of the bed and leant against the hard board of dark wood, and to distract herself she considered the horse-like figures that were carved into it but she could not make out what scenery it depicted. The words of her handmaidens returned to her and she shivered again, already grabbing for the blankets, but Éomer saw, he always saw, he was a king.

‘No,’ was all he said, shaking his said, ‘No.’

His tone was kind enough but it was unmistakably an order, and he did not smile, he seldom did, he never did. Following her king's orders as the obedient wife she was, she tried to distract herself from the sounds of undressing; she briefly wondered what it would take to make a king smile, but as she looked up impulsively upon the sound of rustling fabric she already knew. She looked at her husband who was also her king, and she felt herself shiver. Even without a crown, even without a throne or horse to sit upon, he still looked all the king he was; even clothed with nothing more than his skin he still looked all the fearsome warrior she had heard so many tales of. Did she shiver out of fear? She did not know; she tried not to show it, but he saw, he always saw, he was a king. Still, intimidated as she might have been, her curiosity led her eyes to gaze with fascination at her husband. He was muscled, with broad shoulders, lightly tanned skin, flaxen hair the colour of gold, more kingly even than any crown in the world. He was a man in his best years and the life pulsated in him, strong and fierce … and erect. She cast her eyes down and blushed at having gazed at him so openly, so intensely, so shamelessly.

As he reached the bed, the Horse-Lord stared at her for a moment, eyeing her with intrigued, fascinated eyes – she knew that she was to his liking, and she could see now how her beauty affected him. Her husband reached out and grasped her feet, and then he slowly pulled her down towards him – he was surprisingly gentle, and yet she was aware of the strength and force that was behind his movements, small and slow as they might appear. As she lay there before him, one hand grasping the sheets, the other almost outstretched, she was somewhere between keeping herself from being pulled down, welcoming him or even the thought of pushing him away. But the Queen did not deny her King that right; he was her husband, was he not? He had every right.

He looked at her with green, burning eyes, always looking, always watching – and she felt utterly naked and vulnerable under his intense gaze; but no matter how hard it may have been for her to bear his piercing gaze, she did not find the strength to look away. She held her breath as he parted her legs with calloused hands; she held his gaze as he climbed on top of her. With one hand, placed next to her head, supporting his weight, the other locked under her knee, holding her in place, he came to her; with one hard push, that made her gasp in surprise and overpowering, he slipped inside her. His movements above her were steady and strong, and though he was not exceptionally gentle with her or appeared to care for her own pleasure in any way, he still cared enough so as not to hurt her.

As he increased the tempo, his breathing became faster as well; his thrusts so powerful she felt herself pushed further and further backwards on the bed, and almost instinctively her hands grasped the sheets next to her head, seeking something, anything to hold on to. Never, not even once did his eyes waver from her face, those piercing, green eyes that seemed to burn so hot she feared to be consumed by their fire, and it took all her feeble strength to hold his gaze and not look away. Soon enough the air between them was filled with his sounds of pleasure, growls and moans so deep and dark it made her shiver, though whether out of fear or quite another emotion she could not say.

All of the sudden then, she saw his eyes grow dark and for a second she wondered what she could have done to stir his wrath but then, from one moment to the other, he retreated, and she realised what was happening. For a moment there was the thought of objection on her mind, and afterwards she could not have stated with absolute certainty if not the slightest sound of protest had escaped her – but as always she did not deny her king. With a quick and determined move of his hands, he turned her around, and then he was behind her.

_As the stallion mounts the mare._

In those moments there was no gentleness in him; in those moments there was no pride in her – pushed on all fours like an animal, it was hard for her to believe that she was a Queen and that he was a King. There was nothing regal, nothing civilised about the way he mounted her in those nights or the way he howled like a beast. She felt him starting to shake and she knew it would be over soon, and true enough, three, four, five more powerful thrusts that made her gasp and draw in a few sharp breaths, and her lord and husband started to shudder and voiced one long, final growl before he at last collapsed on top of her. For a long moment they remained like this: both breathing heavily, unable or unwilling to move.

When Éomer retreated at last, he rose, and pushed her onto her back again, and for a moment he looked down at her, his gaze somewhat softening at the sight of her still lying motionless before him, breathless even, before he smiled gently, a stark contrast to the way they had just come together mere minutes ago. Without words he picked her up and carried her to her side of the bed, laying her down and tucking her in as if she were a child, before he himself crawled into bed on his side. After he blew out the candle a pressing darkness fell upon the room, and it didn't take long before she could hear his breathing slow down and turn even, telling her that he had fallen asleep.

But Lothíriel could not find sleep, she simply would not find sleep: staring at the ceiling she knew she missed the slow murmuring of the waves that had leapt onto the beach of Dol Amroth, lulling her into her dreams. She turned her head to the left and looked over to her husband who slept peacefully as any man content and satisfied would. She gazed at the dark shape of her lord and husband and not for the first time did she wish that she could have hated him: it would make things so much easier for her, but no, she had no reason, and no excuse, to hate this man.

He was neither cruel nor did he mistreat her, in fact, since the day she had come here and married him, her husband had treated her with nothing but kindness and respect, and yet he seemed not to care much for his new wife. Apart from sharing a bed with her and exerting his right as a husband, they hardly ever saw each other or even talked; spending most of his days with the council or going on long rides to scout the surrounding area and settlements, she was mostly left on her own; and though she had at first appreciated the latitude he gave her, she soon came to feel utterly alone. His apparent indifference towards her made her feel even more like a stranger in a strange land, with a language she did not speak and customs she did not understand; where everything was so different from her home and all she had loved and known all her life was gone. She was all alone, and with no one to talk to, each passing day felt grimmer than the last.

The Queen of the Mark sighed heavily, and ignoring the burning tears in her eyes she rolled onto her side, facing the wall, and willed herself to sleep. But how could she ever find sleep, how could she ever feel at home, or be happy, when she was truly a fish out of water, and so far from the sea?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUN FACT #1: I have been working on this story for nearly 7 years now, and out of one story 4 more grew. Last year I finally gave myself a push and started writing this down (my notes were becoming too endless anyway ...) and the 4 other stories of my Tolkienverse are waiting patiently for when it's their turn.
> 
> FUN FACT #2: I have a very specific actress in mind when I picture my Lothíriel character - who would it be for you, I wonder?


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I am - rocking like a hurricane! ;) (Next update: next friday!)
> 
> See at the end for new fun facts!
> 
> Enjoy and spread a little love by leaving a comment!

**2\. Strangers in the night and strangers in the light**

Lothíriel paced aimlessly around in her bedchamber, absent-mindedly brushing out her hair while reciting some _Rohirric_ words that she still had trouble properly pronouncing, all the while trying not to mix up their meaning. To her dismay she had found that, although she had always been gifted in learning languages – after all, she was fluent in _Westron_ and both Elven languages of _Quenya_ and _Sindarin_ – the language of the Riddermark gave her quite a hard time. She was not sure whether it was the rustic sound of the words, so harsh and guttural, foreign to her native soft tongue, or the structure of the sentences, sometimes so similar to _Westron_ , sometimes so unfamiliar and strange, or whether it was the logic of its semantics. (Every other damned word seemed to be connected to horses – and granted, what else could she possibly have expected in a land filled by horses and horse-loving people? – and like this, how could anyone be expected to not mix up _eorl_ , the name of the founder of the House of Eorl, kings of the Mark, and _ceorl_ , the word for a mere peasant?). Lothíriel paused for a moment in her pacing, closed her eyes and sighed in frustration, remembering what had driven her to undertake this messy business of attempting to learn the tongue of the Mark.

A few weeks after her wedding she had had a nightmare that had caused her to leave the bed. She had not feared to wake her new husband, for it was not unusual that he would work late into the night or be gone on royal business she had no part of. It had not been the first time she had had this nightmare and, in fact, she would go on to have this nightmare almost every night, and sometimes she would even disturb her king with her wild thrashing and little helpless cries, prompting him to wake her, though he never seemed to care enough to inquire further. But perhaps that was only a natural reaction of his, after all, he had been a warrior all his life and he was a man to whom nightmares were not unknown. More than once she, too, had heard him cry out in the night, jolting awake, shaken and sweaty, eyes wide with a terror she had no knowledge of. But he never spoke of it, never even acknowledged it, and so she, too, had stayed quiet, complicit in their silent, unspoken agreement to politely ignore it.

Still, as much as she had grown to overlook her husband’s nightly terrors, her own nightmares were not so easily forgotten and ignored, and she remembered that one night it happened particularly well. It was always the same. She found herself surrounded my mists of smoke and the burning heat of flames, a sound of panicked neighing that made her turn around, only to see a horse running straight at her; white hide, black mane, eyes crazed with fear – and just when the beast was about to ride her down, her dream ended.

That one night she had awoken with a scream caught in her throat, shaken, trembling with fear, drenched with cold sweat, alone in a big royal bed and for a moment unable to breathe. It had taken some time to remind herself that she was safe, that she was in her bed and that she was a Queen, and not a fearful little girl. Although she had considered settling back into the sheets and trying to fall asleep again, she had known that it would have been a fruitless effort in her agitated state; instead, she had left the comfortability of the royal bedchamber to take a quick tour to the royal library. Reading had always helped her nerves calm down, helped her to settle down and focus, and since she hadn’t dared to explore much of her new home yet and no one was around to catch her unprepared, she had thought it to be a good idea at the time. And thus, in nothing but her flimsy night shift and bare feet, and a silken mantle haphazardly thrown over her shoulders, she had ventured forth …

_… She had leisurely strolled through the wings of Meduseld often enough to know the location of the royal library: having left the royal bedchamber she had known that she had to cross the Great Hall in order to enter the corridors of the eastern front-buildings; the third eastern front-building housed the library and study. Once she had left the royal chambers she had to go to the corridor of the two doors, one west, one east, that both led to the Great Hall, and opening it, she had found the hall empty, cold and dark, with only subtle moonlight shining down through the louver built into the roof. Alone the fire in the great hearth in the middle of the hall had been burning leisurely; but then again, that fire was always burning – or was it not said that if the fire of the hearth in the Great Hall of Meduseld ever perished, so would the line of Eorl?_

_But fire or not, it had hardly been able to light the hall enough for her to see and the darkness and chill of the night had almost had her scurry back to the safety and warmth of her bed. Thinking back on it now, she almost wished she had. But she had gone on; crossing the Great Hall with hurried but careful steps she had entered the corridors of the eastern front-buildings and slowly – counting the doors – found her way to the entrance of the library. She had found the door unlocked and slipped inside, remaining standing there at the door for a moment to allow her eyes time to adjust to the dark light, but oddly enough it had not been necessary, for there in the library a roaring fire had burned in the fire place at the wall._

_Although she had found it odd for the maids or body servants to leave a fire unattended at night, she had not heeded this warning. She should have tucked tail and run then and there; but she didn’t. Instead she had ventured forth to explore the destination of her little nightly adventure, but there had been little to explore. Where rows upon rows of books and scrolls and paper should have been stacked and packed and squeezed in, only lonesome shelves of a few scrolls and papers here and there could be found, thrown into the brittle wooden structures with little aim or motivation. It had truly been a sorry sight, and for some reason, it had made her sad and her heart heavy, heavy with longing for the library back in her home in Dol Amroth, where she would have spent many an hour lost in wondrous tales, sitting at the window, hearing the lulling murmur of the sea, or watching the ships and boats brace the sea. This library – if one could truly call it that – was a shame compared to that; but with a sigh she had resigned and stepped forward. If this was truly all she had, she had best make the most of it._

_Slowly she had stepped forward, towards the few shelves to the right – one row of shelves before another row of shelves and another and so on and on. The first two rows of shelves had been closest and the light enough to easily read the titles of the tomes and perceive the symbols of the seals on the covers encasing the scrolls. Titles such as_ The Foldes and Woldes of the Mark, On the husbandry of horses, The breeding tree of the Mearas and lesser horses _or_ On the Practices of cavalry _and_ The great Strifes and Sieges of the Mark _. Wherever she had looked, the foremost rows of shelves had seemed to contain nothing but words and words of warfare, horse-breeding and maps. And what was more, most of it had seemed to be in Rohirric too, as she had figured out after she had opened a scroll or two, and thus had been quite unreadable for her. Not very enticing reading for a Princess from the Sea._ No, not any more, remember? _, she had chided herself silently then, adding ironically,_ you are a Horse-Queen now.

_Not ready to give up yet, she had looked over to the other rows of shelves following behind the foremost ones she had already dismissed: since the light from the fire place had not stretched out all the way to the end of the room, she had neither had the idea how many rows of shelves there truly were nor how spacious the library and study really was – at some point the light of the flames had simply started to change to shadows, ever darkening, until the light was completely swallowed by utter blackness. As she had been about to proceed, she had felt that sensation again: a subtle warning settling low in her stomach, and she had wanted to leave then and there, but she didn’t._

_Moving further down the rows of shelves she had ventured forth – albeit more hesitantly – into the darkening shadows, hoping for easier reads in easier tongues to be her reward but she had been sorely disappointed. Although there had already been few works for reading available in the front rows, the back rows provided even fewer options, and, judging by the layers of dust, these were the reading choices people seldom made. Since the materials of warfare, horse-breeding and geography were apparently highest in demand, she had wondered, intrigued, what books and scrolls remained mostly shunned and hidden here._

_Her curiosity, however, had not been rewarded, for no books or scrolls could be found on the last rows of shelves, and only empty, dust-covered nothingness had stared back at her. And yet, on the last row of shelves a little detail had caught her attention: on the level of the same height as her shoulders a little black, blank stripe had revealed the spot a heavy tome had stood there not too long ago and had only recently been removed. Her brows had creased in confused disappointment as she had stepped closer to rest her finger on the spot of the missing book; and while she had given herself over to thoughts of wild speculations of what mysterious nature this tome might have been, she had absent-mindedly stared into the darkness ahead – the only problem was, there had already been_ something _staring back at her._

_With a shocked, high-pitched scream she had jumped back, crashing into the row of shelves behind her, nearly knocking them over, as her hands had clasped over her mouth, trying to keep herself from giving off another cry at the sight of these eyes, these green eyes, greyish-green eyes – oddly familiar eyes. But as she had tried to focus her gaze, tried to make out the truth behind her suspicions, the materialising shape behind the last row of shelves had slowly stepped forward, and as the light of the flames had hit him more directly, she had come to see that it was none other than Éomer king himself._

_Too confused to speak she had instead beheld the sorry state of him: instead of the strict and sombre military clothes she had come to see him in, he had worn nothing but his breeches and a thin shirt, feet bared and dirty, sleeves rolled up, his hair unkempt and unbound, and in his right hand a mug half-emptied that had seemed to explain his appearance best. In his left hand he had clasped a book she had judged to be the tome missing from the last row of shelves, but before she had had the time to read its cover her king and husband had addressed her – but not with the kind or dispassionate tone of the ruler and stranger; instead with a deep, husky voice, muddled by ale and some other emotion._

_Looking up she had noticed that he did not really see her, his eyes, tired and unfocused from drinking, and it had taken her a while to realise that he was not speaking to her in the common tongue of_ Westron _, but in his own native language of_ Rohirric _. But he had seemed entirely oblivious to that fact. Confused she had remained silent, not knowing what to say, not knowing what he said; however, her continued silence – rather than make him aware of his miscommunication – had appeared to anger him. His voice had grown louder, the tone changing from babbling to growling, and he had started to swing his arms around wildly, with ale spilling everywhere._

_She had not known what to make of it. This was not a sight she had ever thought she would see of him. It was so not like him – she had never seen her husband drink, she had never seen her husband angry or ranting (at least, she believed it to be ranting, that much was clear even despite the language barrier) and she had never seen him as anything less than controlled and disciplined. And although she knew from her brother Amrothos and her father’s knights that men changed when drink got to them, this seemed to have been caused by more than just an excessive abuse of ale. But perhaps, she had mused, the answer was closer to home than she would have expected, and if a Southern princess from the Sea could be woken by nightmares in the dark, could not a warrior king restlessly wander the halls for the very same reason?_

_But just in the moment when she had wondered what nightmares could keep a king up at night, she had been torn out of her thoughts with a loud thump, as the heavy tome had crashed against the shelves behind her and then fell to the floor, revealing a title writ in golden letters:_ On the House of Eorl and the lesser houses of the Riddermark _. Looking up, shocked and confused, she only saw her king and husband close the distance between them, eyes clouded by drink and fury, before he gripped her shoulders with the strength of a seasoned warrior and proceeded to push her up against the wall to her left._

_Surprise and overpowering, the ungentle impact of her back against the hard, wooden wall, and undoubtedly fear as well, had wrought the air from her lungs in desperate, hectic gasps. She had wanted to free herself, she had wanted to demand answers, she had wanted to tell him that he was hurting her – but she did none of these things. Met with green eyes turned to black, a gaze so fierce and hard, so wild and so relentless, she had felt her heart skip a beat, the words caught in her throat, threatening to choke her. And then he had shouted at her again, words in a language she did not know, all the while shoving her further into the wall, the wooden barrier scratching the soft skin of her back even through her mantle and night shift (although she doubted that he realised he was hurting her), and no matter how much she had wanted to look away, she could not have escaped those eyes._

He’s a great warrior, and that’s all he will ever be _, she had remembered then, her own quick, judgement-at-first-sight of her husband and king from all those months ago coming back to her; the day she had been told of her engagement, she had taken one good look at him and thought to have figured him all out, and now it seemed to have been all too true. In that moment she had feared that he would actually hurt her in his drunken fury and when indeed he had raised his hand, she had quickly closed her eyes and turned away, preparing herself for a blow that never came._

_Instead his hand, balled into a fist, had crashed into the wooden beam next to her, so hard she could hear the noise of something cracking, though whether the wood or his hand, she could not have said. She had been too frozen to react, or to realise what was happening, before it was already happening. His head had slumped forward, and then his whole body had seemed to fall against her, and he had been shaking, almost violently. His weight, made heavy by muscles from years and years of training and fighting, had pulled him down and as he sank down on his knees, his head came to rest on her belly, as he buried his face there._

He was crying.

_The Princess that was now a Queen had turned to stone in that moment, too overwhelmed to react to the scenery that had unfolded before her. It was unspeakable, it was unthinkable: that a king was just a man. All her life, along with the people of the South who had never known a king in their lifetime, she had worshipped the idea of kings as men greater than men. The Kings who had hailed from the West, who had built the White City, the Greatest City of Men, who had defeated the Dark Lord, not not once, but twice – those kings had to be more than mere mortal men. And thus it was unimaginable for a king to suffer a mortal’s simpering sentiments – despair, fury, cruelty, greed; these were the stirrings of lesser men, but not of kings. Kings did not lust for things that were not for them. Kings did not rejoice in the shedding of blood. Kings did not rage beyond reason._

And Kings did not weep.

 _And yet here she had been, a princess turned into a Queen, with a King turned into a mortal man. In that moment her whole world had seemed to shift and all her views and understandings shattered all around her – and if she had believed to live her new life as the detached Queen to a great King, one of tales and unreachable, immortal aloofness, she realised now that she had been wrong to do so. No, she would not be allowed to shut herself off from the new world around her; she would not be able to believe herself a stranger in a strange land, detached from all the rest, no longer. She would not be able to see the man before her as more than a man, to see him only as a title and an idea more than the person made of flesh and mortal weakness, for he was her husband more than he was her king, and she was his wife more than she was a queen. For if kings could despair and rage and lust, then queens could be touched, too;_ she _could be touched too._

_The very thought of it had shaken her with realisation and the depth of it had almost drowned her. She had thought that if she kept her eyes lowered, she would not have to see beyond her own beliefs and experiences, that if she kept her ears closed off, she would not have to listen to the truth of her new reality, that if she kept her heart sealed off, out of reach from mere mortal stirrings, that she would not be touched by them, would not be tainted by them, would not be moved by them. But now she saw her own folly at last. Much pride her family and her people had taken in their aloofness derived from their past, believing themselves more than mortal, an echo of the glory of kings and queens past, idols carved from stones, and just as unaffected – but they bled and wept and raged and failed, hoped and feared, and they felt all the same. And she saw that she was no different from the man before her – and if he was a king, he was also a man, and if she was a queen, then she was also a woman._

_Sucking in a desperate gulp of air, she had fought to keep the tears from welling up in her eyes, for as she had looked down, seeing the kingly head crowned with golden hair shake and tremble, just as any other man might, it had made her heart break, at the sight of him and at the realisation that she could no longer pretend to be above such mortal feelings as loneliness, shame, fear, but also the craving to belong. Slowly then her hands had moved to the head still pressed in trembling despair against her belly, and without really knowing what she was doing, her fingers had woven themselves into the deep folds of his golden strands; caressing, massaging, soothing._ Was it not said that sorrows shared were sorrows halved, and that misery loved company? _She had been a healer of the body, she could be a healer of the heart and soul, too. And for a moment then it had seemed that her sentiment was appreciated, desired even, as his arms had come around her midst to be closer to her and the comfort she offered but then it had all been shattered._

 _All of the sudden then he had grabbed her wrists, shackling them in an iron grip, and the force behind it had made her hiss in pain; instinctively she had released him from her nigh-embrace, too confused and too stunned by pain to protest or inquire. And as she had looked down, so had he looked up, and there had been unshed tears in his eyes, blurring the green into a dark shade of grief, fury and despair. For a moment she had been reminded of_ Nienna _, the Weeping Lady, who griefed forever and always for the suffering of mankind – but there had never been fury mingled with those tears, and yet here he was, as much water as there was fire. He had looked as though_ Ulmo _had risen from the deep of the ocean, riding the waves of wrath and despairing fury, rising with its tides, or as though_ Oromë _, the Great Huntsman of the Rohirrim, had descended in his wrath, riding his hosts of steeds through a field made of flames. She had trembled at the sight; she had shaken and shivered, but that had been all she was capable of doing._

_With her hands locked in his fists he had risen, and yet, binding her with more than just his hands but with his gaze – cold and hard and yet heated had been his look, making it impossible to back away, as he had backed her further up the wall, his hands now digging into her shoulders again. And now he had been shouting at her again, and though the words had seemed familiar now, they had remained strange to her all the same, but the storm in his eyes and tears on his cheeks had conveyed enough emotion for her to understand, or if not understand, then at least for her heart to sense the meaning behind it. And when he had finally released her then, pushing her away once more, she had run back to the safety of her bed, and she had never looked back …_

… Although that night had been seared into her memory, she had never again brought it up, and apparently, she had not been the only one trying to forget it. The next day at breakfast she had remained silent when he had lied to his newly-returned sister about his injured hand, and she had shied away from his gaze when he had looked her way. Neither she nor Éomer had mentioned the happenings in the library to each other, rather they seemed to be tiptoeing around each other, never locking eyes, never raising their voices, always avoiding confrontation. But despite her wish to forget the intense incident, she could not forget the strange words in the strange tongue that had been shouted at her, the deep emotion carried over through eyes rather than words, and in her the desire had formed to understand them.

Perhaps she thought that if she understood his words, she would also understand him – and did her own father not bid her gain trust to gain influence? Of course, she knew it was not the only reason for her new hobby, and despite all her attempts to push the incident to the farthest fringes of her memory, she could not so easily suppress the shift it had triggered in her consciousness. She knew that if she wanted to escape her loneliness she had to learn to connect to the people around her, _her_ people; if she wanted to belong, to feel at home, she had to make a home for herself; and if she wanted to end her feelings of shame and fear, she had to conquer them and meet them head-on, like the Swan that lashes out when threatened or cornered; and like the sea that could even destroy mountains with the wrath of its waves, she would rise with the tides. She had to face it, this was her new home now, and if she were to find happiness here, it was upon herself to make it happen, and if this meant that she had to become a proper Rohan woman, exchange her slick silken shifts for wool dresses and learn a language so rustic her very tongue seemed to rebel against, then by _Ulmo_ , the Lord of Waters, and all other _Valar_ , she swore that she would make it so.

‘Come on, stop your whining, Princess, if your ancestors could conquer the West of Middle-Earth, then you can conquer this gobbledygook of a language!’, she chided herself, and then with a sigh she came to an abrupt halt in her recitation of _Rohirric_ vocabulary. She knew her teachers – her two handmaidens Aida and Madlen – would not take kindly to her apprehensive stance towards their beloved tongue, and neither would her people. _Rise with the tides_ , she reminded herself, the words of her ancient family and House echoing in her mind and heart, pushing her forward; _rise with the challenge_ , she spurred herself on. Lothíriel pressed her lips together, steeling herself and setting her mind back on the task of reciting the vocabulary she had learned today in one of her daily sessions – today, she had been taught the names, and also the meaning of the names, of various different plants that were native to the Riddermark, and she was hell-bent on memorising them today.

But while she was reciting her vocabularies as the fervent student that she was, repeating them, again and again, testing their rustic sounds on her soft tongue, completely absorbed in her studies, she did not hear the door to the bedchamber open nor did she notice a certain someone entering the room.

‘Sim-bel-mue-ne.’ at the sound of a voice she turned around, startled and speechless, face to face with the King of the Riddermark, her husband – Éomer. The King himself had to fight hard to keep that grin from his face: he was always amused by how easily she was startled, and he thought he could waste his life away, happily, with watching her being startled by him – it was most entertaining.

‘My Lord?’, she looked at him with big eyes as he slowly descended down the two steps towards her, and he could almost see how she had to refrain herself from shying away from him as he moved further into her personal space.

‘ _Symbelmynë_. That's how it's spoken.’, he explained with a smile and adding, ‘If you do learn my language, I should at least have you learn it properly, don't you think, my Lady?’.

But that wife of his did not answer, she only nodded, slowly, almost as if she were in a trance. Éomer had come to a halt at last, standing now right in front of her and he could see how his closeness discomfited her, but he was not smiling now. Instead he caught himself staring at her unabashedly, having now the full pleasure of looking at her, and what a sight she truly offered: eyes wide with surprise and anticipation, black hair loosely floating down her slim and willowy shape, and clothed in nothing but a thin linen night gown – the very light of the fireplace seemed to radiate through her.

However, as much as he was lost in the sight of her, he did not fail to notice how very much uncomfortable it made her to be under his constant, piercing look, and so, after a few moments, he turned away, pretending not to hear the relieved sigh she sought to suppress. Busying himself with stoking the fire, he gave her time to recover before springing on her again. Hearing the rustling of fabric in the background, he knew she was putting on her silken mantle, more to protect herself from his gaze than the cold really. He sometimes wondered whether it was truly shyness that made her retreat from him, or whether it was something more.

‘It has come to my attention that you are a frequent visitor of the Archives and Library of the Golden Hall, is that true?’, even without turning around he knew that he had startled her again, and the thought amused him, though he took care not to let her see that; and as he recalled the incident in the library all those nights ago, remembering his own carelessness, rudeness, his own disturbing behaviour towards her, well, it was enough to somber even the most mischievous of moods and killed the small smile on his lips before it even had the time to form itself. When he turned around to hear her answer he could see the surprise written all over her face, and understandably so. Because while his young wife must have believed him to be absent or disinterested quite often, being away or simply caught up in the affairs of ruling, it would have been a great shock indeed for her to learn that news about her activities and interests in Meduseld had never been far from his ear. He was a King after all, he heard all, saw all, knew all. Whether it were her two lady servants, Aida and Madlen, or the other body servants of Meduseld, word had reached him – he knew that she often tarried in the library, he knew that she had taken up learning the tongue of the Mark, and he knew that she barely left the halls of Meduseld.

‘It is, my Lord, but … ’

‘But?’, Lothíriel bit her bottom lip to keep herself from snapping; she felt caught off guard, unsure how to respond. For a moment she even feared, irrationally, that he had come to enforce a talk about the incident in the library all those nights ago, but it was more than that, and she knew him as a man who would never admit to such an incident. Rather, she felt embarrassed for her own carelessness. Truly, she should have known that neither her frequent strolls to the archives nor her newest object of study would remain secret for long; having grown up in the Southern courts of Gondor, she knew that servants often spoke little but heard all the more. She knew now she had been naive to think that Meduseld would be different; more rustic, perhaps, but no less steeped in gossip and hearsay.

‘It's just that I feel grieved at the lack of books and scrolls, for this library has hardly more to offer other than scrolls of warfare and geographical data, which are of little interest, I fear, for anyone, except a warrior.’

‘For anyone? You speak of yourself, my Lady? You mean to say our library is of poor nature?’, he eyed her with a challenging expression, clearly entertained by having backed her into a corner; the rigid politeness of the South had always amused him. And though it would have been an easy thing to leave her to fend for herself, to stutter her way out of this mess, he also saw the cruelty behind it, and despite all, he was not a cruel man. Thus he found himself jumping in, to save his damsel in distress, ‘It is true, the people of the Mark have never been known for the writing of great books, though we have great stories to tell. Hardly any man or woman can read or write, but we remember our history and lore well enough in songs and ballads.’

In the pause that followed there was the unspoken but unmistakable knowledge that the many songs and tales of the Mark were only known to those learned in the language of the Mark, and that the things his wife sought were not to be found in the dusty pages of books or backs of scrolls but in conversations with the actual people of the Mark, and that if she wanted to make this her home, she could not shut the door and shut out everyone else, she actually had to welcome others. Éomer watched her intently, watching her expression change; surprise yielding to understanding, and knowing her as the shy woman she was, seeing her so resolved in opening up, it was truly admirable, and he gave her credit for that at least. And if she, a sensitive, little Princess from the South could find the bravery to open up and push forward, then so could a seasoned warrior and King, right?

‘You enjoy reading, my Lady?’, the question caught her off guard and for a moment she knew not how to answer it; was he expecting a truthful response or was it another one of his tricks to rattle her walls and make her trip? Lothíriel eyed her husband and king with a watchful look, but no, there was no deception about him – but that was nothing new. The Rohirrim, after all, were a truthful people, painfully direct in their words, they knew not how to lie – and if that made them blunt and rustic, it also made them genuine and trustworthy.

‘Very much so, my Lord, it is by far my favourite occupation. When I find the time and leisure for it, of course.’, she answered slowly; at first only with caution, but then uplifted by how good it felt to open up, she soon found herself carried away by her enthusiasm, ‘I always found that reading is like travelling with the mind to the farthermost places and seeing the most wondrous things; anything is possible in books, and it makes the reader feel as though anything were possible for him, too. I always found it rather amusing, exciting even. Would you not agree, my Lord?’, almost out of breath, she came to a halt, feeling her overbearing and oversharing making her blush.

With unsure eyes she gazed over to Éomer, hopeful that he would join her, and open up as she had done, but she would be sorely disappointed. For as forward and frank as Éomer was, he was also a hardened soul walled in by experiences and upbringing – and he had been, after all, raised as a warrior and a soldier, called to obedience and duty, hardship and endurance, rather than hope and imagination. She could sooner have hoped for the ebb and tide to still their dance at her command than for this warrior to throw away shield and spear here and then and to leave himself as open and vulnerable as she had done. He was not ready for that yet - and sometimes, in order to initiate true change, one had to be cruel to be kind.

‘Hardly.’, a stab to her heart, ‘I have never found much need in the written word besides scrolls and maps shaped for the need of warfare and laws.’, another stab, ‘No book can tell you how to wield a sword or ride a horse, after all.’, and another stab, ‘Poetry and silly prose, I always deemed it a rather time-wasting, womanish effort.’, and that last stab sank deep, deep enough to cut and leave a scar.

Éomer, who had been about to turn around, to start his undressing, was then met with the ramifications of his words when he beheld his young wife again. Eyes cast down, all colour drained from her sun-kissed face, a posture reminiscent of one of those sea creatures retreating into their shells. He could see that she was visibly hurt and disappointed by his words, although she tried not to show it as she quietly walked over to their bed and slipped beneath the sheets with not another word said. Immediately he regretted his harsh, heartless words, whose hard and cold nature he only came to understand now, cursing himself for this, but it could not be helped, and words said could not be unsaid. With a deep sigh he tried to shake off these feelings of remorse as he started to undress, but he could not so easily shake off that strange feeling that made something in his heart constrict almost painfully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Fact #1: As you probably guessed by now, both Éomer AND Lothíriel are dealing with PTSD. We'll find out more about that in later chapters.
> 
> Fun Fact #2: Like Lothíriel I'm very fond and usually quite good at learning languages. I am bilingual in English and German, I learned French in school and Latin at the University. Currently, I'm learning Turkish. Now, how about you? How cunning are you when it comes to the linguistics? (Sorry, I really can't help myself sometimes with the word play!)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here were are, back at it, folks!
> 
> A huge shout-out to all the people that commented, favourited and read my story - thank you so, so much!
> 
> (Next update: next friday!)
> 
> Enjoy reading and spread a little love by leaving a comment!

**3\. Fine bloody feathers make fine bloody birds**

The fire in the hearth burned red and brightly, filling the chambers with a warm heat and glowing light, and Lothíriel, sitting in her chair in front of the fireplace, sucked in the snug warmth with every fibre of her being, humming with her eyes closed. Behind her, her young maidservant Aida brushed out her long black hair with admiration and precision, combing through the tresses until they shone like waterfalls of onyx, flowing down her shoulders.

‘You have beautiful hair, milady.’, the young woman behind her said, as she wove her fingers and the comb through her hair one last time before moving to braid it for the night, ‘But you really should wear it open more often.’

‘Aida!’, the older sister shrieked, very obviously shocked by her sister’s impertinent impulses, and Lothíriel had to keep herself from grinning wildly as she turned around in her chair, almost too eager for her manners for the surely upcoming argument – it was not the first time the two sisters had brought her great amusement with their constant bickering, and she knew this time wouldn’t be any different.

Madlen and Aida were two sisters who couldn’t be any more different, and their one and only similarity started with their dead parents and ended at the colour of their yellow hair. Madlen, the elder sister, was more refined, more stiff, more inclined to duty and manners, and she wore her hair in a braided bun in her neck. Aida, however, the younger sister, was more spirited, more curious, always asking too many questions, and especially those of the wrong kind, always managing to put her foot in her mouth somehow, and she wore her hair in a long braid down her back, and in her jumpy eagerness it frequently flapped about her like a fluffy tail.

‘I would wear my hair open more often, dear Aida’, the queen finally spoke, coming to the younger sister’s defence, ‘but it simply does not befit a princess of Dol Amroth.’

‘But you’re _not_ a Southern princess any more… ’

‘Aida! Keep your nosey nose out of it!’, the older sister spat at her, turning around, having had enough of her younger sibling’s endless improper poking, for a moment interrupting her task of sorting out the queen’s many dresses and gowns she had taken from her home in the South, ‘What our Lady means to say is that a woman of high birth and high status should not look like a loose little lassie!’

‘You’re quite right, Aida, I’m not a Southern princess any more.’, Lothíriel spoke then, jumping in once more to save her young maidservant from her older sister’s scolding, and both women looked at her expectantly then, as though she were to make a bold and triumphant claim of patriotic loyalty, but she would disappoint them both, her heart had not arrived at her new home just yet, ‘But even so, your sister Madlen is right, I am a married woman, and unbound curls are for unbound girls.’

‘There you have it, Aida. Now go on and make yourself useful – these fine dresses won’t fold and put themselves away on their own, now, will they?’, Madlen chimed in, using her queen’s words as a steppingstone for a sisterly reminder of the young woman’s duty and position. But as older sisters are so often reminded of these days, the young do not so eagerly bow to the old, and thus it was that the queen had to clasp her hand over her mouth to stifle her hearty laughter as she watched the younger sister imitate the older one with nigh perfect exaggeration – grimacing face and wagging finger and all.

‘Aida!’, the older sister exclaimed impatiently when she noticed her younger sibling’s impertinent behaviour, planting herself squarely in front of her, arms akimbo, eyes twitching with annoyance, ‘You’re being such a _child_!’

‘But I _am_ a child!’, the young sister said half-shouting, half-laughing, as she mirrored her older sister’s ridiculous stance of attempted and failed authority.

‘Your moonblood started flowing almost _five years_ ago – you have long _stopped_ being a child.’, the older sister pointed out matter-of-factly, rolling her eyes, and folding her arms for an appearance of authority before she turned her back on her little sister, done with dealing with this kid’s stuff, and busied herself with collecting this week’s washing load from the basket next to the door, mouthing as she went, ‘You should stop _acting_ like a child.’

Aida’s shoulders stiffened, and for a moment Lothíriel almost expected the younger sister to retort something witty and provocative to fan the flames of the sibling’s argument anew, but then she sighed, her shoulders slackened and her head bowed low, as it would seem in sisterly submission. And as the young girl-woman went to the bed to fold the laid-out dresses and gowns, her older sister sorting out the clothes that needed to be washed, stacking them on piles of bright or dark colours, the queen watched them with a sombre heart and melancholic sentiment.

Lothíriel had learned enough from Aida’s thoughtless chatting and Madlen’s polite conversations that both sisters had been forced to stop being children and grow up rather abruptly, as they had lost their parents quite early on in their lives. The Rohirrim had been harassed by their neighbours to the west, the wild men of Dunland, for as long as the Mark had existed, and long before the War of the Ring had even begun, they had seen their attacks increase, and in one such raid their family home had been put to the torch, and with their parents trapped, they had become orphans over night. After that, there had been little time for childish thoughts and childish things; toys had been exchanged for toils; sports and games had been exchanged for servitude. As orphans of the Westmark, they would have actually fallen under the protection of the Third Marshall of the Mark, but back then, as the shadow of war had darkened, it had been ordered that those of the outer provinces should seek shelter in the heart of the country, and thus both girls – with Madlen’s industrious workings spirit, and Aida’s lively charming spirit – had quickly ended up at the King’s court that had then been in dire need of order and levity.

Truly, both of these young women had been denied a proper childhood, and perhaps it was even that which had turned Madlen into such a serious, stiff lady and Aida into such a childish, improper young woman. Or perhaps it had been the fact that Madlen as the older one always had to take care of her younger sister, taking on the role of mother before she even had been a woman, and Aida in her turn had always relied on her older sister’s motherliness and thus forwent turning into a proper adult. But whatever it had been, Lothíriel had decided – almost instantly when she had arrived here all those weeks ago, when she had first been introduced to her young maidservants with their atrociously accented Westron – that given the bitter blow these two had been dealt with, she would make certain that they would be married well and would be well off, as was her right and duty as their queen and mistress. Yes, a thoughtful partner for Madlen who would share her industrious and serious streak, and a cheeky, smiling husband for Aida who would cherish her childish, wilful nature rather than berate it. But until then, she mused decisively, it was her job to treat her maids with kindness and respect and to ensure their well-being.

‘Milady, you have such beautiful dresses!’, Aida squeaked with unbound delight, pulling Lothíriel out of her quiet thoughts and making her older sister shake her head in silent disapproval as the younger sister danced around the chambers, holding one of the queen’s dresses against her own willowy shape. Lothíriel smiled, her sombre thoughts lifted by the very image of it, already contemplating whether or not to lavish the young maidservant with that dress as a gift or as part of a possible dowry.

‘They’re beautiful, yes, but undoubtedly not made for this weather.’, Madlen chimed in, her forehead etched in frowns as she held up one of the satin shifts of the queen, so thin you could almost see right through it, and it was clear to see that the maidservant spoke truth here, but there was more to it than that, and Lothíriel did not mistake her double meaning. After all, in that month she had been here already, she had only once or twice left the Golden Hall of Meduseld, and she had barely even left these chambers – and it was not the cold or the thinness of her clothes that was entirely to blame for that.

She was a stranger in a strange land, and shy was her nature; but to be believed was to be seen, and few enough people had actually ever seen the new Queen of the Mark ever since she had been married and crowned. Perhaps, like her unfit clothes, her skin was too thin for this place, and who could believe her to be a queen, if no one had ever seen her acting as one? As of now, she was a queen that was neither seen nor heard, and she knew many had expected nothing more of her when she had come here: to be nothing but a silent vessel to bear children, something pretty to be looked at – and she knew, since she had got here she had not worked particularly hard to change that opinion. So, with what right did she feel hurt by that one comment of her maidservant? If she wanted opinions to change, she had to change them herself – and it was as though Madlen had heard the resolve of her inner voice as she spoke once more, ‘We’ll have to get you some woollen gowns, especially for the colder months. At the market they often have good ones, dresses truly fit for a queen. I’ll send Aida down in the morning.’

‘Really, I don’t want to be any bother: there’s no need to spend money needlessly on my account.’, Lothíriel started quietly, a small smile playing around her mouth, but humility was not on her mind right now: it was time to be the queen no one expected her to be, ‘As I understand it, the Rohirrim are a humble people that pride themselves on their modesty – perhaps, we could simply sew a layer of woollen shifts underneath my old dresses?’

The smile Madlen gave her queen told Lothíriel everything she needed to know, and she knew that she had made her first steps in taking the mantle of queen, and the first steps to truly write her own destiny, the first steps to be someone new, and perhaps, even someone happy and fulfilled. It was true, she may not have come here of her own accord, and this land and its people seemed as foreign to her as their language, but she also knew that she could not expect any happiness in her life other than what she made herself, and thus she had to _choose_ to be the queen to this country and its people, and to do so, she had to make this country as much a part of her as the sea had always been. ‘I’ll call upon the senior seamstress down in _Auld Town_. She has the skill of an Elf, I dare say!’

‘No need, Madlen, I have some skill with the needle myself, and I have been tending my own gowns far longer than I’ve actually been allowed to wear them.’, the queen spoke then, astounding the serious sister once more, ‘But I would be happy, if you and your sister would keep me company.’

‘Y-yes, milady.’, the older sister stuttered then with no little surprise, curtseying, and very nearly dropping the load of clothes she meant to sort into bright or dark colours for washing. As Lothíriel turned around to stand closer by the fire once more, stretching her fingers out towards the warmth, she could see out of the corner of her eye that the younger sister gave her older sibling a cheeky wink and even cheekier smile. The older sister seeing her younger sibling’s non-verbal equivalent of “I told you so”, only shook her head and rolled her eyes, but she smiled nonetheless, and returned to her sorting of the clothes to be washed with new-found vigour.

‘It’s good to have a lady back at Meduseld.’, the queen heard Madlen chatter absent-mindedly as she started to pick up the pile of bright clothes she meant to bring to the wash-kitchen.

‘But the lady Éowyn … well, _is_ a _lady_.’, Lothíriel then heard the younger sister question and the queen imagined that well-known expression of confusion and doubt etching the young girl’s forehead in frowns.

‘A _real_ lady, Aida. Not some man-woman who only wears her gowns to hide the armour beneath it!’, her older sibling spat back then with an edge in her tone, biting as the snow outside the window.

The Queen smirked at that comment and wondered for a moment whether Madlen would still talk so boldly if the _lady_ Éowyn were present – but then again, the Rohirrim were known for their love of speaking the truth, it was questionable, however, whether their love extended to the hearing of truths as well? But then again, Lothíriel had little doubt that the opinions of others were as far from the shieldmaiden’s mind as the open sea she had never seen – but soon, the Lady of Rohan would lay eyes on the wide, blue ocean, and perhaps then, as so many curious, mean eyes would see her, her sister-in-law would then listen to what others thought of her? The queen smiled melancholically, and hoped the shieldmaiden wouldn’t – her sister-in-law was a marvellous person, if an unusual one.

With a sigh, Lothíriel’s thoughts grew sombre again. Sometimes she wished she had her new sister’s fiercely confident streak, to boldly defend her independence and to be deaf to the words of others, but alas, as a Southern lady she had not been afforded such simple luxury. Instead she had been expected to be a proper lady in looks and manners, words and deeds, for had she not done as expected, she would not have been accepted, and thus she became all the lady she was told to be. She wouldn’t say that it had made her particularly happy, but then again, she had never expected happiness in her life anyway, not after her childhood had passed. She had been content with what little niche of her interests she had managed to fashion while adhering to the social codes and expectations of her family and rank, but it had not brought her much happiness.

However, becoming a proper lady had also brought some advantages with it. She had learned to play the games of the court nigh to perfection: she had learned to always portray an image rather than a real person in order to trick and manipulate, to gain favours and move the chess pieces according to her own will and need – not by force but by persuasion. She had learned to appreciate to have other people see her as what they wanted to see her. In the South, that was the core of the court games; to play along with the images projected, to curry favours by flattering and cajoling the egos of lesser men, to guess the secrets of greater men, and to gossip about everyone and everything in between. But here in the North, here in the Mark, people only had one face to show to the world; they didn’t know how to lie and cheat and manipulate and gossip, and they didn’t need to, for their lives were a simple dedication to the noble and true nature of integrity, and what they saw, they believed, and what they heard, they knew.

And so she wondered, what did the people around her see when they looked at her? What did they see when they saw her in her light and blue dresses, her perfectly coiffed hair, her soft skin and fine fingers? What did they think to know about her when they heard nothing from her lips but the silence of a deep lake? By the reactions of her handmaidens to her offer and favours asked, she had a pretty good idea what they thought of her and saw in her. Had they expected a pampered little princess who put up her feet all day, lounging in her bathtub, and spent her days with wasting away money? If that was what they saw, then she had to do her best from now on to change that. Lothíriel smiled at that thought, her resolve hardened, her goal set and clear.

Turning around to her maidservants to reveal her decision, her intention to start anew and to become a proper Rohirrim woman, she froze in her movements, however, the smile on her lips fell apart and her eyes widened. Lothíriel beheld Madlen standing in the door, still as a deer at the snapping of a twig, gaze worried and decently ashamed; one of the queen’s very own shifts between her hands, blood smears on the cloth, marring the pure whiteness of it. Aida, who for once had ceased her infinite mindlessly happy chatter, stood in the middle of the room, eyes darting from woman to woman, and to the bloodied piece of clothing in her sister’s hand. For a moment, everyone stood still, afraid to move or speak, tiptoeing on the very edge of a sword, and every action threatened to hurl all three of them into the black abyss. They were all women, they all knew what it was; they all grew up at court, and they all knew what it meant.

‘I’ll take that.’, Lothíriel spoke then, at last finding her voice again, spurring into action, moving towards her maidservant with quick steps, but not quick enough as it would seem. Madlen watched her with big eyes, the confusion in them like a cloud of fog that was washed away by the rain of understanding, making her gaze harden – not with anger or hatred, but with resolve and the impulse to submit everything and all to duty, even the friendship between women.

‘No, milady, it’s no bother, really.’, the older sister answered then, quickly withdrawing her hands – hands, that had held the bloodied shift outstretched just a moment ago, now clutched the bloody piece of evidence to her chest, unmistakably out of her mistress’ reach. Aida, who still looked helplessly from one older woman to the other, swallowed hard when her older sister’s determined gaze hit her and without any word needing to be spoken she took the shift from her sister’s hand, picked up the load of bright clothes and left the chambers to bring it to the washing kitchen.

And then there was only silence between both women left in the room – Madlen, having done her duty, returned to sort her queen’s dresses back into the cupboard, and the queen, having failed to hide her secret, returned to the hearth, seeking at least the warmth of the fire for solace, and as her skin soaked up the heat, she allowed her thoughts to brood with worry. She wondered whether Madlen or Aida would tell their king about this. She knew in the South, husbands often tasked servants to spy on their wives, to check if they were faithful or whether they withheld information about things such as these – but she didn’t know how things were done here in the North, in the Mark. And if they spilled her secret, how would her lord and husband – _her king_ – react? Would he be angry, would he be disappointed, would he lash out at her?

Granted, he had never treated her unkindly or hurt her in any way (although his clumsy choice of words could sting sometimes), but she knew him to be a man capable of great violence and great anger (the incident in the library had been evidence enough of that), and then again, she had never disappointed or disobeyed him before – so how could she really know for sure? She knew that, officially, she had been sent into this marriage for one reason and one reason only: to bear a child, a son, an heir, and to further a royal line of a royal house that was now on the brink of extinction. She understood that if she were unable to perform her duty and not bear a child, she would be cast aside and the marriage would be annulled – her king would marry another woman, one of his own choosing, one from among his own people, and perhaps, the Rohirrim would even welcome that, after all, she was a stranger from a strange land? As for her lord father, he had made it abundantly clear that the road home would be forever barred for her if she did not do the job she was sent here to do – she would be cast out, rejected by her own family and left to her own demise.

‘You know, milady’, she heard Madlen say quietly then, yanking the queen out of her dark thoughts; her tone of voice almost ashamed as she sorted the dresses back into the cupboard, as though she truly felt bad for having just betrayed her mistress’ trust by doing her duty, ‘if you don’t find it too bold of me to suggest, I could have some tea prepared for you that would help with the cramps and the aching. It’s a special tea, it dulls the pain but not the senses.’

With a sigh Lothíriel turned around, schooling her expression to not show her obvious disappointment and worry that had gnawed away at her just moments ago – after all, it wasn’t Madlen’s fault that doing her duties also meant to divulge secrets she had rather hoped to keep … well, _secret_. In a way, it had been her own fault, really – usually, she had kept a tight memory of her monthly courses, as they were always, always on time, but her marriage life so far had put quite the emotional strain on her, and she had been so surprised by her moonblood this time and so distracted that she hadn’t even thought to properly hide her bloodied shift. No, the queen thought, it would be unfair to blame Madlen, who for all her womanly sternness was still an insecure maiden trying to please her betters, and thus Lothíriel, as they say, stretched out her hand in an offer of peace.

‘Thank you, Madlen, I would like that.’, at her words, the handmaiden looked to her with a smile as bright as the sun, not even noticing that instead of hanging up the queen’s dress in the cupboard, she let it fall crumpling to the ground, oblivious in her bliss, and Lothíriel, endeared by that girl trying her best to act like a woman, could not help but let go of her feelings of betrayal and worry, and instead found herself gushing with benevolent generosity, ‘I had no idea you were learned in those kind of things.’

‘Well, I might not be an exceedingly learned woman, but I do know my herbs.’, Madlen said with no little amount of pride, puffing out her chest and putting her chin up, and only her younger sister Aida’s barely muffled laughter, betraying her return, managed to step on her older sister’s moment. The older sister gave her younger sibling a deadly glare meant to silence her but Aida chuckled all the more because of it, and Lothíriel had to fight hard not to let the sibling’s amusing bickering get to her all over again.

‘If you like, I could teach you – and your sister – some of the higher healing arts.’, the queen brought herself to say, when she had at last managed to suppress her own chuckles, hiding her obvious amusement behind the trained polite expression of a perfect lady of the South, but even so, her true feelings for these two young women she could scarcely hide at all, after all, when she had come here, some two months ago, these two sisters were the only people that had treated her as a friend and not a stranger, ‘I honestly don’t know how else I could ever repay you for your kind services … for your kindness in general.’

‘There is no need, milady, we are most glad to be at your every service.’, Madlen spoke quickly before the red of her sheepish blush at the queen’s generous words rendered her too embarrassed to utter a single word, and so instead of many words, she fell into an impromptu albeit clumsy curtsey, and sought to cover her nigh inappropriate elation with a quick snide remark regarding her sister, ‘However, it would give Aida something useful to do with her hands and tongue other than wagging in gossip and playing pranks.’

The younger sister, obviously affronted at being used as an easy target and cover up for her sister’s overflowing, sheepish pride, simply stretched out her tongue in childish defiance, clearly not ready to give up her silly ways of gossip and playing pranks just yet. Madlen, shocked at her younger sibling’s acting, rolled her eyes and shook her head, wagging a warning finger in her direction as she spoke with the patience of a soon-to-erupt volcano, ‘Aida! For _Béma’s_ sake – were your raised by wolves?! What will the queen think of us?!’

‘HA! I was raised by _you_!’, Aida snarled, arms folded like a fortress in front of her, eyes squinted in an anger that challenged her older sibling to a duel, ‘You know full well I don’t like being talked about as though I’m not here! I’m sure even the queen would agree!’

‘That is so … just so you!’, Madlen shouted back, hands pulling at her own neatly braided hair, breaking the perfect control she had had, before she threw her arms up and planted herself in front of her younger sister, arms akimbo, fuming with perceived righteous anger, ‘Miss I-don’t-need-manners-I-need-to-have-fun, now you also presume to speak for royalty!’

‘Oh, that’s rich, coming from you, Miss … Miss … – Miss I’ve-got-a-stick-so-deep-up-my-arse-I-got-stuck-in-an-eternal-curtsey!’

Watching the two sisters battle it out with words and gestures and facial expressions full of anger, annoyance and quite a lot of amusement, managed to put the queen’s mind off the more pressing concerns she had, but not for long, and soon enough, Lothíriel turned her back on the sibling’s shouting contest, turning towards the hearth’s warming heat and allowed her mind to sink back into her thoughts of worry and concern.

* * *

Lying in bed already, blanket pulled up to her chin, Lothíriel watched as her lord and husband took off his clothes one by one, preparing to come to bed for the night, and her watchful eyes did not miss that he did not take off his breeches, and the queen knew at once that one of her maidservants had talked. It was not like her king came to her every night to perform his kingly rights, after all, they had been married for almost two months now, and yet, it was highly unusual for him to shun her bed for more than five or six nights in a row, and given what her handmaidens had discovered today, it would have been some great coincidence indeed if her husband’s abstaining were not connected to that bloodied shift of hers.

Lothíriel sighed with a heavy heart, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth and stared at the canopy of the great king-size bed; the colour of green was on each and every piece of fabric above her head, a sea of grass on which a single white stallion stood, proudly but alone, the herd all but gone – would there be no more fillies, no foals to further the herd? Hissing the queen snapped her eyes shut, shaking her head to shake off these images and yet she could not quite shake off the heavy feeling of worry that had burrowed itself inside her stomach like a deep, yawning pit of pitch black darkness, swallowing all of her.

Eaten up by fear and concern, the queen sat up then, incapable of finding the peace tonight she would require for anything resembling sleep, and looked over to her husband and king slouching comfortably in his favourite wing chair while sharpening his sword, as he so often did in the evenings, as though eager for a battle and a war that never came again. And the very image of him grinding the whet stone along the sharp, long blade made her questions of earlier in the day return, how her king would react to the news of her failure to produce an heir, the very likely possibility of his wrath – or perhaps, his wrath would be even greater if he learned that she had tried to hide this piece of news from him? Lothíriel swallowed hard, hands instinctively reaching for her throat, as the blade glistened sharply in the light of the hearth.

_Should she apologise?_

Her father had told her that, officially, her most important duty was to provide the King of the Mark with an heir, and many husbands, in particular if that husband was of a royal lineage bound to end, were quick to lay blame and shame on their wives for not providing the desired offspring. But she knew there was more to it than that; this burden had not been placed on her shoulders for the sake of the Mark and her husband alone. She knew her father, the Prince Imrahil, to be an ambitious man above all else, and his lust for power to be almost insatiable. There had even been rumours back during the War of the Ring (as it had come to be known), when the Mad Steward grew even madder, that her father had desired to be more than just the Prince of a luxuriously rich and powerful princedom, but to enrich his already legendary lineage with an even more priced position – if not the most powerful man in the kingdom, then at least the second most powerful man?

Of course, the outcome of the War of the Ring had changed all that: a king had returned and chosen a steward of a long line of stewards, and thus it had seemed that her father’s ambitions had been for nought. But her father was a politician through and through, and he was cunning and knew well how to play the long game. He knew that if enough favours were exchanged and enough backs were scratched, he perhaps could climb right to the highest steps of power, right next to the King of kings. And what better way than to provide the king’s most trusted ally with a belly to fill and two royal houses to connect, what better way than to help the friend of a friend? Truly, she knew her father to be the man to demand an apology from her for not fulfilling her duty. The bitter thought crossed her mind quickly, and even quicker did her instincts jump into action, and thus she found herself ready to address her king and husband with caution and a decent show of remorse.

‘My lord, the moon has been shining full for some nights now, and sad for us as it is, it will continue to do so for a few nights more.’

The silence that followed when her lord and husband interrupted his sharpening of the blade was the only evidence she had that he had heard her, but when the silence stretched on and she saw her king look up – his brows creased, his forehead etched in lines, his face wearing an expression of utmost perplexity – she wondered then if he had really understood her meaning, and when he spoke then, she knew that he had no clue what she was talking about, ‘What are you talking about, Lothíriel? There hasn’t been a full moon for over a week now.’

‘No, my lord, the moonblood – ’, she jumped in quickly, panic and embarrassment battling for dominance inside her, making her blush redder than her monthly flux, as she struggled with herself to make him understand what she tried so hard and so in vain to tell him, cursing herself for the secretive language polite society forced on her and all women, ‘My courses have come on me again, my lord.’

Her lord and husband only blinked at her words as though he still could not or would not understand her meaning, as though the ramifications of her words were still escaping his understanding, and Lothíriel very nearly despaired at the amount of embarrassment she felt that she would actually have to spill it out for him as plainly as a milkmaid would, with no flowery speech or subtle language to cover that awkwardly intimate subject between them. Swallowing hard, the queen made a last attempt to explain the situation to her king, resolved to be as clear as crystal this time, ‘My lord, my blood has come on me again. It means I will not be able to give you a son and heir just yet.’

At this his mouth slowly formed into a silent and round “oh”, his eyes clouding over, and he must have understood her meaning at last, for he inquired no further nor showed any other sign of confusion or question. As a matter of fact, her lord and king showed no sign whatsoever of further interest in the whole affair at all since he simply took up the whetstone again, put his sword in his lap and resumed sharpening its blade with the precise, monotone movement of a trotting horse. The queen blinked rapidly at his words, unbelieving, and now, ironically, it seemed to be her part to be confused.

‘My lord, I am sorry.’, she spoke then after a while, when she could not take the unending noise of the whetstone on metal any longer, and indeed, with her words, the sound of the sharpening of the sword faded into silence once more, and once more it was up to her king to fill the silence that followed with words. Acknowledgement she expected, disappointment she believed, anger she feared, but comfort … comfort she could not have guessed.

‘You don’t need to apologise, Lothíriel. It’s not your fault.’

Quietly, oh so quietly, the words had been spoken with such soft rendering she would have missed them, had she not hoped so desperately for any word from him, and even now, certain of what she had heard him say, she could not believe her own ears. Surely, she must have misheard him, surely, the singing of the whetstone sharpening the blade had muddled the words of wrath and blame into words of ease and understanding. But no sounds of sharpening could be heard, no noise of stone on metal cut dissonantly through the silence, and as she looked up then blade and whetstone lay untouched in her king’s lap and her king’s gaze was trained on her with a softness she had neither thought possible nor expected in a thousand years.

‘My lord?’, she brought herself to say then at last, swallowing hard, fighting the urge to look away and instead hold his warm gaze – too warm a gaze, in her opinion, for an arranged marriage between strangers, too warm a gaze, in her experience, for a man who had just learned that his wife failed to do her most important duty, ‘Where I come from women are often blamed for this sort of thing.’

‘Lothíriel, do you really think me the kind of man to do that?’

‘I don’t know you.’, she answered quietly then, truthfully, painfully honest, and Éomer couldn’t pretend that it didn’t sting a little to hear her state it so clearly, so openly, and what was even more painful to him was the way she lowered her head after her admission, as though ducking out of danger coming ahead, as though preparing for a storm of wrath she apparently expected him to rage against her. He knew he would be lying to himself if he pretended that he wasn’t hurt by the way she so very clearly saw him (a grim brute? a savage caveman that unleashed his anger on a woman blameless of their misfortune?) but then again, what right did he have to feel hurt? What had he really done so far in their marriage that would make her think better of him (he was still mortified by his behaviour in the library and deeply ashamed by his disparaging words towards regarding her passion for reading)? Or even before then, during their time of courtship (if he could really call it that)? In truth, he had done nothing, less than nothing, to better her opinion of him (he had no illusion that most Southerners did not share King Elessar’s or Prince Faramir’s good opinion of the Rohirrim, but rather the contrary), so how could he expect her to know what kind of man he was, or rather, what kind of man he wanted to be? Still, all his rational thinking did not stop himself from feeling, and what he felt was hurt and disappointed, and that could perhaps explain why his next words could be hardly counted as truly comforting or supportive.

‘We have time for that yet.’

And with that the conversation was over, or at least that’s how it seemed, since the king turned his attention back to whetstone and sword and resumed his sharpening of an already perfectly sharpened blade. As for the queen, she looked over to her lord and husband for a few more moments, unbelieving and too stunned for words, and it would have been an understatement to say that she was surprised. It was safe to say that she had not expected their talk to go this way (but then again, to be fair, she had not expected, either, to have a conversation with her lord and king about the intricacies of the female cycle).

Her father had instilled in her the belief to obey her husband – _as he was her king_ – and to fulfil her duties to him; he had never said anything about trusting her husband, or being his partner for that matter. But perhaps her father had been wrong in his instructions too, perhaps this marriage was more than just a contract, a means to an end, or at least, it could be more, and although she didn’t know yet what it was, she felt the hope inside her glimmer that it could be more than what her father had ordered it to be. Of course, she didn’t think of love here; love was reserved for fairy tales and romantic scandals, but perhaps, yes, perhaps a sort of mutual understanding. It was strange, she thought, as she slowly sank back into the blankets and furs, so strange to think that this man, this man who was her husband and king, this man that she didn’t know at all, that this man – a stranger, by all accounts – would show more compassion for her than her own father ever did.

The swishing sound of a sharpened blade sliding back home into a sheath pulled the queen out of her sombre musings and back into reality, and her gaze settled onto the shape of her husband, moving slowly and deliberately, elegantly almost, across the chamber. Sword belt along with sword was put aside on a near-by table, candles blown out, the fire in the hearth choked until only the embers shone with the red of the remaining, radiating heat. Only then did her lord and husband grace their marital bed with his presence, although, as they had clarified in their painfully honest conversation, she knew there would be no marital activities here tonight. But as her king came to their bed, he came close enough to make her doubt her certainties on this regard.

At first she had thought that this was only the masculine impulse to take up space born out of the masculine perception that space they were owed, and so she sought to escape the irritatingly comforting heat radiating from his body by sliding further and further away from him towards the very edge of the bed, so much so that she was nearly in danger of falling out of bed. But still, every inch she edged away from him, he reclaimed, until there was no more retreat and he settled in behind her.

As his arm came around her then, embracing her from behind, that large paw of a hand settled low on her belly, drawing slow and deliberate circles, and for a moment she wasn’t sure whether he still had not understood the meaning of her words from before. But by then the movements of his hand had already taken effect, having her tense, cramped body relax under his touch, the deep warmth of his voice adding to it like warm honey sweetening milk as he spoke then, and by the time he finished, the words and timbre of his talking had soothed her half to peaceful sleep already, ‘It’s alright, Lothíriel, it’s not what you think. Someone told me it helps with that time of the month.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUN FACT #1: This chapter was actually a pretty late addition - but since the relationship between Lothíriel and the sisters will be important later on, I thought it best to establish it first. *slaps forehead* *writer's guilt intensifies*
> 
> FUN FACT #2: Often when I watch or read supposedly historical / fanfastical fiction, I always wonder about the little things - how do the ladies deal with their monthly annoyance, or how do these high and mighty folks take a decidedly not so airy dump? Well, now you know why this chapter simply had to happen - and fear not, the intricacies of toilets will be addressed too.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! There and back again! (Sorry, every Valar-forsaken pun intended!)
> 
> After fighting with myself to finish this chapter (it was actually already finished half a year ago, but last sunday I got an idea, however, working as a teacher right now is hell ...), I decided that I would simply split the chapter in two. Here's the first half - the second half will be chapter 5.
> 
> As always thanks for the lovely reviews (especially the guests - because I cannot reply to you when you are guests, I'll give you a shout-out like this! BOOM!), the favourites, the alerts and the love! Keep it up - it keeps us warm in these frosty times.
> 
> As always, next chapter next friday!
> 
> Have fun reading and spread a little love by leaving a comment.

**4\. Needles and men**

‘ _Béma_! Curse upon this rotten piece of cloth!’

Éowyn, ever impatient and clumsy when it came to womanly chores, had pricked her finger once more with the sharp needle; the finger in her mouth, sucking up the little drop of blood, her eyes squeezed in anger and pain, as she cursed without shame. Lothíriel moved to pick up the fabric that her sister-in-law had just thrown away, once caught and clamped within the embroidery hoop, now rumpled due to the impatient hand of its holder.

‘You need to clamp the fabric into the embroidery hoop really tight, so that it’s taut and more easily to be worked on.’

‘We both know it's not the tautness of the fabric that's the cause of failure here.’

Éowyn refused to take back the hoop her sister-in-law tried to hand back to her, and instead continued sucking at her finger, angrily, feeling sorry for herself and scolding herself at the same time. Lothíriel, caught off guard, simply smiled uncertainly, but remained unsure of how to respond to her new sister’s indirect allusion to her poor embroidery skills. She had politely pretended before not to notice the complete lack of skill her sister-in-law showed, and polite as she was, she had only because of manners agreed upon training her in the arts of embroidery.

One day, seemingly out of the blue, Éowyn had decided to embroider a cloak for her betrothed, in preparation for her wedding, to have it blazing with the newly-created banner of Ithilien and their new Prince and Ruler. Éowyn had told her that she and Faramir had both made a deal: as he was amused by her unconventional character and her non-comformity towards typical female activities, they had bet whether or not she would be able to successfully embroider a cloak for him. And although her sister-in-law had not told her what the stakes of their wager were, the cheeky smile she gave her told her more than enough.

Lothíriel, partly because it was customary for the Lady of Meduseld and royal wife, had decided to embroider a cloak, too, in honour of her lord and husband in the shape and colours of the banner of her new home and new house – a white horse running upon a green field – but also because she desired company that would keep her thoughts from walling her in. She had thought spending time with Éowyn would be a nice way to keep idle thoughts from getting the better of her, but training her dear sister-in-law in the art of embroidery seemed to be more than she had bargained for, it seemed to be an act of sheer impossibility.

She was in general unsure how to act around her new sister-in-law, for she was in every way a rather unusual woman: her complete lack of experiences in the typical activities of women, and instead her knowledge and skill in horse-riding and sword-fighting made for an unusual companion, so unlike her, both startling and fascinating her – and perhaps it even was her unusual character that allowed them to become such good friends at so short a period of time. Once Éowyn had returned from her trip to Ithilien – she had left with him right after her brother’s wedding and had only returned almost a fortnight ago – it had taken a few days for the two women to warm up to each other. Éowyn first needed to be convinced that any woman could be worthy of her brother or of her people, and Lothíriel, well, her sister-in-law was as warm and loyal a woman as she was intimidating and fierce, and it had taken the shy southern princess a few days to be able to handle her forward and frank ways – but once the reservations between them had been overcome, they had become fast and true friends, companions and partners. Because while they were maybe not talking about needle techniques or exchanging cooking recipes, they were talking about the history of the Mark, the deeds of its greatest champions (not to mention: shieldmaidens!), the differences in politics between the Riddermark and her former home, and, they were also working on her language progress. All in all, she could not have asked for a more exciting, more distracting, more challenging or better companion than her new sister-in-law.

‘Do not give up, dearest sister, none of us is born either a master at sword or a master at the needle.’, she spoke softly now, trying to regain her interest, and truly, coaxed by her choice of words – for terms of warfare and of sword-fighting always piqued her interest and curiosity – the shieldmaiden took back the unnerving piece of cloth, eyeing her with a gaze that sought to unravel her mysteries.

‘I would not assume the Swan Princess ever had problems with her needlework?’, Lothíriel smiled shyly at the affectionate nickname her dear sister-in-law had given her shortly after they had got to know each other. Of course, she could not but be aware of the slight ridicule that resonated with that nickname: after all, it was widely known that Éowyn Shieldmaiden was a lady like any other, and that, indeed, she despised and mocked other women for their ladylike ways – and who could be more ladylike than a lady from the Southern courts? And yet, despite their differences in character and interests – or maybe even because of it? – they became true companions, closer than friends, like sisters, for truly sister they now were.

‘Even the Elven ladies, I assure you, were once nothing more than inexperienced, clumsy ducklings.’, they both laughed at her joke, although having both seen the Lady, and now Queen, Arwen, it was hard to imagine her as anything other than perfect, and their laughing slowly but surely ebbed away, ‘I promise you, practise will make all the difference. But it takes time; you only started with the needlework yesterday and surely you cannot expect to be a master of the art of embroidery at the second day already.’, Lothíriel sat down again, opposite her sister, ready to take up her needlework where they had left off.

‘Forgive me, sister, I am aware that I can be a troublesome pupil.’

‘Troublesome is not the word I would use, sister; _challenging_ suits you much better.’, Lothíriel had only meant to show her support and understanding for her sister-in-law, though it would seem that Éowyn saw more in her words than she had meant to show, as some darker emotion shadowed her gaze.

‘I always forget how well trained fine noblewomen are at twisting words into more fashionable, concealing phrases.’, she smiled, but now there was bitterness in that smile as she added, ‘I suppose I have spent too much time in the company of men to have learned this art.’

Lothíriel knew much and more of Éowyn’s backstory to understand her comment. She knew that her mother, Théodwyn, had died young; shortly after her father, Éomund, had been killed in an Orc skirmish, her mother had withered away in grief – Éowyn had been younger than her when she had lost her own mother. It was something they had both in common; they both had grown up without mothers, with brotherly or fatherly affection and care of sorts only, but whilst she had had governesses and ladies of the court to culture her and keep her company, the shieldmaiden of Rohan had been left in the sole company of men – always expected to act the lady when she had truly only ever learned to be a man.

With a deep sigh, Lothíriel tore herself out of her deep and sombre thoughts, reminding herself that wallowing in pity and melancholy of past woes was never a good way to go ahead and get things done, and so she fell back into her old rhythms – head held high, chest out, back straightened, hands neatly folded on top of each other: a picture of a prim and proper lady. After all, if she wanted for her sister-in-law to at least become acquainted with the social conduct of the Southern courts, then she had to set a perfect example. Her shieldmaiden-sister may carry a shield and sword to protect herself, but Lothíriel knew, a lady’s gown was her armour.

‘Now, sister, shall we return to our lessons?’, she started then, her voice as soft as the rain of her home country, reminding the shieldmaiden of the lessons of etiquette training she had initially (and perhaps foolishly) agreed to. At first, Éowyn had been amused by these lessons, after all, she had been able to talk for hours on end about her country that she loved, the culture in which she had thrived, the renown she had won as a shieldmaiden, but then rules and limitations had been introduced, and all of the sudden, her colourful words had been chastised, her rapid-fire chain of descriptions had been clipped, and her freedom of speech altogether was meant to be to squeezed into a tight corset of flowery, senseless, euphemistic speech. It was not at all what the shieldmaiden had expected, and if she weren’t so bored, she would be infuriated by it – but then again, it was a challenge, and Éowyn shieldmaiden had never shied away from any challenge before.

‘After all, cultured speech is not learned by cussing foul-mouthed – ’

‘If you think that was foul-mouthed – ’

‘It’s not what I think, but what the ladies of the court think.’

‘Those hens can’t think … ’, Éowyn snorted while leaning back in her chair with an air of utmost success and a punchline viciously dropped, for a moment unaware of how deep her little joke had struck, but as she looked over to her sister-in-law, as though to expect a gleaming smile and winking eye of shared amusement, she was foolishly mistaken. The Queen was looking at her new sister and wild student with a dead eyed-expression and a mouth-line so thin and sharp the shieldmaiden almost feared to cut herself at the edges. Looking down, humbled, Éowyn mumbled an apology, becoming more and more aware that not all Southern ladies were of the same kind, and that compared to her new sister-in-law she had more than a long way to go.

‘Once we’ve – _finally_ – struck up some proper conversation here ’, she said, eyeing Éowyn with a warning gaze, ‘I think we also may have to take a look at your curtsey.’

‘There is absolutely _nothing_ wrong with my curtsey.’, the shieldmaiden snapped back, completely taken aback, unprepared for this all-out attack on her every mannerism. To be fair, Lothíriel would not exactly use the words “nothing wrong” with regard to her new sister’s curtsey; if anything she would deem it quite passible, or to be precise, compare it to a clay cup rather than a silver chalice – drinking could be done from both, but one exuded wealth and nobility, the other practicality and humility. This fine but significant distinction seemed, however, utterly lost on Éowyn as she concluded her fuming rant, ‘My curtsey is perfectly fine, thank you very much!’

‘Éowyn, what I meant to say … ’, Lothíriel started then, realising that her blunt head-on tactic may have been not such a good idea after all, and that an agitated horse needed comfort and a soft hand rather than orders and stern insistence. But Éowyn was well past the point of being cooled down by soft words, as she sought to talk herself into a veritable rage.

‘I’m sorry, but no! I might not be all the lady other women are, but I am not a savage either. I learned to be a lady of the court just as well as any noblewomen of the Riddermark, and just because our sophistication doesn’t reach Southern heights, doesn’t mean we are backward trolls.’, she made a short pause to take breath, and then with a sigh that sounded more like a growl she went on, ‘I am what I am. I cannot and I will not change that. And I dare say, if the fine Lord Prince of Ithilien had wanted a primly meek Southern lady, he would have found himself one!’

With that the shieldmaiden of the Riddermark slumped back into her chair with the full force of her anger and crossed her arms before her breast, sulking with surprising intensity. Lothíriel blinked quickly at this display of rather unladylike, rather childish behaviour, unsure how to proceed from here, fearing that she may have nipped her new sister’s willingness to accustom to the South right in the bud. Biting her lip nervously, the queen sought to clean up the mess then that she had made, ‘Forgive me, Éowyn … sister, I presumed too much. I should not expect you to change for me or anyone. I should not have spoken the way I did. If I made you feel as though you were not the lady that you are, then please, forgive me, that was not my intent.’

‘Enough already, Lothíriel, stop grovelling; we both know I’m not really a lady – not truly, anyway.’, Éowyn spoke at last, a smile trying to wriggle free of the sulking face she was showing, waving off her sister-in-law’s humbling gesture, before shaking her head, and sighing deeply, ‘I know you’re only trying to help, but … I don’t know, the more you’re trying to help the more I realise I _do need_ help, and I’m not used to that.’, Éowyn laughed at that, but it was a hollow laugh, cheerless, without any mirth, instead there was a melancholic note to it, ‘I’m not like you, and I don’t think I’ll ever be a lady like you … ’

‘No one expects you to be.’, Lothíriel threw in quietly, carefully, humbled by the vulnerability she had felt in the shieldmaiden’s voice, almost hearing the walls of strength and honour and not-caring crumble that Éowyn had built around herself for some many years, shocked to realise that she was probably one of the few people her sister-in-law had ever opened up to about her insecurities. And in that moment, the queen came to understand that the shieldmaiden before her truly had the ability to be strong – not because she knew how to wield a sword and slay a foe, but because she allowed herself to open up, even at the cost of being vulnerable. Éowyn, however, she realised, did not yet see this as a strength, as she smiled a painful smile, trying to cover up her emotional slip up; no, her new sister still had a very simple understanding of strength, and the queen feared that it would cost her a lot of pain and outbursts of anger and moments of tears and misery to understand that strength came in many a different form.

All of the sudden then, Lothíriel was torn out of her thoughts, quite unceremoniously, when Éowyn cleared her throat, and rather theatrically at that, clearly trying to switch the subject, and the young Queen from the South, ever the polite one, obliged, seamlessly playing into the game.

‘So, tell me, Lothíriel Queen, how do you find life in the Mark?’, Lothíriel smiled, secretly amused at her sister-in-law’s attempt at court speech and the overly formal manner in which she addressed her, but she tried, and she gave her credit for that. Of course, she could not but notice that the shieldmaiden also meant to mock this formal tone, after all, they were sisters now. But Éowyn, as all the Rohirrim, was usually always direct in her address, and she saw more than she let on – she knew that for her, as a Southern Princess, such forwardness, as was custom with the Rohirrim, was still new and sometimes awkward, and perhaps she hoped that if she met her half-way, she would find it easier to open up.

‘Oh, it’s lovely, to be sure. The clustered courts and herds of people in the South can become so stifling and overbearing sometimes. Here, there is so much quietness that I feel quite at peace. It has been ages since I have had such leisure to think.’, her answer so far had been very diplomatic, and she could see in her sister-in-law’s face that she would not be content with that and expected more of the truth to follow, and so, with a sigh, she complied, ‘Of course, so far, I have not had time yet to enjoy the far-off places of your beautiful country, but I wish to see it, for sure. There is a … savage charm to it.’

‘And what about the King of the Mark? Is there a savage charm to him as well?’, Éowyn laughed at that and while Lothíriel blushed, she had to give it to the shieldmaiden, for it was true that her words had provided her with a lovely target. And while the heat of awkwardness slowly crept up her neck, she fidgeted for words which would be able to convey a truth that was polite enough to veil the truth.

‘He is a great man, for sure, whose mere presence demands respect. It is not hard to see why he is a king so loved by the people of Rohan.’

‘And what of the man? What do you think of my brother as a husband?’, Éowyn, true to her nature, left no room for her to hide behind pretence, and instead poked on and on; and though surely she only meant well, she should have known how hard it was for a Princess of the South to admit to hard truths, ‘Does he treat you well?’

‘He has been nothing but kind and respectful; I am glad and grateful for it.’, Éowyn eyed her brother’s wife with suspicion; it had not been lost on her that the young woman in front of her could not meet her eyes or that the trembling in those hands threatened to ruin the lovely stitching patterns, ‘He is rather quick and … disinterested when he does his business.’

‘Does his business?’, caught off guard, it took Éowyn more than a moment to understand what her sister-in-law meant, and feigning a coughing was all she could do to keep herself from laughing out loud; after all, she could see how much effort it took for her sister to admit to such unceremonious truths, and she did not mean to hurt her sister. Therefore – she had to admit to that – she could have chosen her next words more carefully.

‘Do you mean to say my brother does not find joy and pleasure in you as his wife?’, even while speaking those words, Éowyn knew she had said the wrong thing; seeing her sister-in-law blanch terribly, eyes widened and tongue stuttering in an effort to defend herself, she knew she had nearly arrived at the heart of the matter, albeit almost overwhelming the sensitive Southern Princess with the strain of forming a respectable and acceptable response.

‘My Lord seems … he always seems quite pleased after … after he came to me.’, the Princess stuttered helplessly, before her shoulders slumped, and she admitted with a meek little voice, ‘H-he can be rather loud.’

_Like the stallion he is_ , the shieldmaiden thought dryly, though judging it best to keep that assessment well to herself. That answer though was enough to shut up even someone like Éowyn, who was now nodding slowly, trying to process what her sister-in-law had just said. Granted, her dear, bull-headed brother had not been the best to gather information from either, usually reverting to monosyllabic answers and non-committal grunts, but from what she had been able to worm out of them both now, their marriage bed was far from lifeless, if unfortunately loveless.

‘I see, and your pleasure? Does he tend to it as well?’

‘I don't understand.’

Éowyn blinked at her sister-in-law’s response but realised, slowly, that she was closing in on the root of the problem between the Lord and Lady of Meduseld, and she had to keep a blushing smile from her face as she went on to explain matters someone else should have long explained to the married woman in front of her.

‘A woman, too, can find joy and pleasure in her marriage bed, or in the arms of anyone else, if she wishes to.’

Lothíriel first opened her mouth as if to speak, but then closing it, she remained silent, and one could see the wheels frantically turning behind her eyes. She was not sure if she really understood what her new sister meant, for none of her governesses or ladies-in-waiting had ever told her of that, and truly she would have been scandalised to have partaken in such a conversation; only the maidservants had whispered and giggled about it when they thought no one could hear them.

‘Is … is that proper?’

‘Proper?’, Éowyn nearly stumbled over the word, forcing herself for a second time today not to laugh, reminding herself that not everyone shared her openness about these matters, and that she could not ridicule her sister-in-law for the rigid taboos she had grown up with, ‘It's how we are made, sister. There is no sin to it. Why else would we have these feelings if we weren't supposed to have them?’

No sooner had she said that, then Éowyn already regretted it; immediately Lothíriel's face changed, showing a transformation of emotions – first, confusion, then, realisation, then, shock, and then horror. Staring at her with eyes wide open, the fear written in them as clear as the sky, fear that the fault lay with her, fear that she would be incomplete and that there was something wrong with her because apparently she did not find the same joy and pleasure in her husband as he had found with her; it was the fear of being seen as a bad wife, of failing her husband in that regard, and she remembered well that her husband was her king. Éowyn who seemed to sense her fear immediately jumped in to reassure her.

‘Do not fear, sister, do not be ashamed. There is nothing wrong with you, even if you have not experienced these feelings yet. The fault is _not_ with _you_ , it is my ass of a brother who should feel shame at having so rudely neglected his duties as a husband.’, Lothíriel’s brows creased at those words and even more so at the notion that a husband was not infallible; had her father not always told her that her king was her husband and her husband was her king? It was inconceivable for her, not only that a husband was in the wrong, but more so, that a king could be in the wrong – but then again, remembering the incident all those nights ago, she had come to learn that a king was only a man, and that a man was only mortal.

She realised how many things there truly were of which she had no notion and no understanding; she had come into this marriage with little ideas other than her fears, and she had never imagined there to be more for her, but now, her imagination seemed to run wild. She remembered vividly the joy on her husband’s face, the stern mask of duty falling to reveal the truest pleasure, and to imagine that she could share that, that she could experience that, and more, that she could be given that by the hands of the husband she so barely knew. It was a strange sensation that made the hairs in her neck stand up; she closed her eyes for a moment to have a vision flash before her eyes, seeing herself locked in sensual embrace with the man she called husband, with nothing but a look of wild abandon on her face.

Lothíriel Queen gasped for air, shaking her head lightly, trying to make the vision disappear and to make the trembling of her body stop. Out of the corners of her eye she saw Éowyn move to stand by the window, opening it, to let in the fresh and cool winter air, and she hoped that it would keep her lustful thoughts hidden from her sister-in-law. She was shocked, scandalised by herself – never would she have believed that of herself, to have such lustful thoughts, and such thoughts of herself and … her husband. She knew by her upbringing that she should feel shame, but remembering Éowyn’s words, she wondered – for the first time – what shame there really was in having thoughts such as these? _None_ , a small voice inside of her answered, a voice she had never listened to before. But no, she decided, shaking her head, these were questions for another time.

Using the same trick her sister-in-law had used before, she cleared her throat in the most theatrical fashion to signal that she fervently wished to switch the subject, feeling the current topic becoming too much of a breach of intimacy for her to handle just now, and thus with a cheeky smile she asked, ‘Now, what about you, sister shieldmaiden? Are you nervous for your wedding to my cousin Faramir?’

‘Not in the slightest.’

Whatever Lothíriel had expected to hear then, it was not that, and she was once more surprised by her sister-in-law’s contrariness and her unusual character. Caught off guard and rendered speechless, she realised then that the romantic love the bards in Dol Amroth always used to sing off, the romantic love she would not dare to imagine and that she had given up on long ago, this sort of love really did exist, just not for everyone, only for a lucky few.

‘I cannot wait for the day to arrive.’, Éowyn continued then, and with her eyes closed and her head tilted back, standing by the open window like some figure of a portrait showing a ladylove and her favoured bard, Lothíriel had a vision of what love could truly be, ‘I'm counting the days until I'll see him again, and yet each day seems as long and tedious to me as a life-age.’, she sighed, and it was not so much a sound of longing love as it was of annoyance, ‘I really cannot understand why my dear hard-headed brother insisted upon this ridiculously long engagement period.’

As Lothíriel watched her sister-in-law, so clearly enraptured in a love as deep as the foundations of the very earth, so completely and utterly content with herself and the world around her, so terribly _happy_ despite all, she felt a pang of some dark emotion pulling at her heart, and had she been a stronger woman, she would have admitted to herself that it was envy – yes, envy for the love her sister-in-law had and that she would never know.

A part of her hated her in that moment, hated her for having all – her sister-in-law had never wanted to find love (at least not the love the bards sang of, but rather a love born out of reverence, as a young green boy might love and worship a hero), and yet she was to have it; and _she_ , who had only ever wanted to be happy, would now be condemned to a life lived without joy. Had her wish really been so outlandish, so unfulfillable? Had she really asked too much? The sheer unfairness she perceived in this, and the deep longing buried inside of her, filled her with the hollow feeling of envy, and yes, a part of her hated her beloved new sister for it. But then again, the other part of her felt truly ashamed for her feelings, for her envy and for her blame – and to be torn between these two parts of her, and these conflicting feelings, it was simply too much; no, she couldn’t bear it.

‘You really love him, don't you, sister?’, Lothíriel tried to suppress the tone of bitterness that stole into her voice, speaking of all those emotions she had sought to bury and deny, but Éowyn, perceptive as the horses her people prided themselves in, seeing through all false guise, did not fail to notice it. Immediately she turned around, trying to read her expression, eyeing her with a gaze that seemed to look right through her.

‘I know you hardly knew my brother when you two were wed – were you afraid?’

This time the shieldmaiden spoke with a softness in her voice that seemed so unlike her and yet was only the barest inch of the compassion she held for the people she loved; and as she spoke she re-took her place beside the Princess turned Queen, taking her soft hands in her calloused hands, offering comfort. Lothíriel felt the tears threatening to flow, choked up by her new sister’s true show of compassion, already ashamed of her feelings of envy, angry at her own weakness and ingratitude. With a bitter laugh, she tried to brush it off, feeling all the more undeserving of the love and empathy of so true and caring and wonderful a woman as her sister-in-law.

‘I was but a child. I knew nothing of men.’, she spoke with a hoarse voice then, impatiently brushing away her tears, finding it difficult to speak her true feelings out loud, always trapped by her upbringing as a lady, the expectations to be a dutiful wife, to accept her lot in life, ‘Do not think me ungrateful, sister. I know that in so many ways I am blessed: I married well, I found a new home – and a new sister – and I am well provided for. What more could the heart long for?’, and while she asked that question, she had already resigned herself to the answer, as her features hardened by a streak of bitterness and she turned away, ‘Kindness and respect are the best basis for a marriage anyway.’

Éowyn who watched her sister-in-law turn from her, eyes cast down, head hanging low, her whole posture revealing that she had already given up on any hope for true happiness in her life, and in that moment her heart broke for her. It was then and there that she finally understood the pain and heartfelt compassion, the deep respect tainted by regret, that Faramir had felt for her back then on the walls of Minas Tirith – and she understood at last that pity was not an expression of emotional charity but an expression of compassion and understanding. She wished she had understood it earlier, but she understood it now.

‘Oh, sister.’, Éowyn whispered then with sad sympathy, taking her new sister’s face in her hands, caressing it, slowly bringing her to look at her again, and to brush away the last of her tears, ‘I am truly sorry for you.’

‘It will get easier in time, I am sure of it. I will learn to adjust, I can manage.’, Lothíriel brought forth meekly, as though she were a bird with broken wings who had given up on the dream of flight, resigned to listen to songs of freedom while the other birds flew high. Embarrassed by having allowed herself to break down so completely in front of another, the Queen tried to turn away, to hide her train-stained cheeks, and she was just about to apologise for her pitiful show of weakness, seamlessly reverting back into old habits she had been forced to grow up on, when Éowyn already beat her to it, jumping in with a passion born out of fierce compassion.

‘No one should have to accept a life without love or joy.’, the anger in the shieldmaiden’s voice took her aback, and even more so her passionate demonstration of sympathy. In the society she had grown up in, in the South, undesirable feelings of doubt or despair were usually not shown and were an even greater embarrassment to witness, for they were seen as a sign of weakness and a lack of discipline, a lack of composure. Because of this, she had always held back with her feelings of hopelessness and her thoughts of loneliness, believing them too inappropriate to be shared; and never would she have dared to believe to be met with such open and warm empathy. The sight of it overwhelmed her, and she thought her very heart would burst out of gratefulness for her new sister’s words and deeds, and simply for her just being _her_. She wanted to thank her, but she simply couldn’t find the words to express her gratitude, nor did she feel that she could trust her voice.

‘I know you’re not happy, sister.’, Éowyn spoke with a surety then that seemed beyond her years, and continued with a laugh bereft of laughter, ‘I know my brother is not happy – although he tries to ignore that.’, and then she fell silent again; her brows creasing, eyes glazing over – she was clearly lost in thought, but then, ‘But perhaps I can remedy that.’

‘What do you mean?’, Lothíriel looked up, clearly confused by her sister-in-law's cryptic words, and all of the sudden the dark thoughts and sombre feelings of their conversation seemed forgotten; instead, she now dreaded whatever scheme Éowyn was up to now.

‘Only this: perhaps my bullheaded brother is not as uncaring as you think, and only acts so disinterested and withdrawn because he is unsure of how else to act around you. It would not have been the first time my brother acted the shy fool in the presence of a beautiful woman he was unfamiliar with.’, Lothíriel stared at her in disbelief, the enthusiasm and conviction of her sister-in-law clearly lost on her; she simply couldn't bring in line the image of the man shy around women with the powerful and intimidating image of the Warrior-King she had come to see him as. She remembered only too well her fear at their chance meeting in the library all those nights ago, and never could she forget her words of judgement, spoken about her husband and king before she had ever met him, _he is a warrior and that is all he will ever be_ , and she feared now that her prediction might have come true. Éowyn who must have read the scepticism on her face went on to defend her point.

‘Trust me, Lothíriel, around loud and confident women – women he knows – my brother is as comfortable as a young filly in the Plains of the Mark; but around women he does not know, especially if he knows not how to act around them, especially women of unnatural beauty, because he is afraid he might scare them off, my dear brother is a hopeless case, always making it worse than it already is.’, Éowyn made a pregnant pause here, winking at her like the proverbial cat that ate the canary, ‘Surely, it takes a strong, sensible woman to handle my brother, sister.’

Remaining sceptic, Lothíriel looked for the right words to express her wariness without seeming unappreciative of her new sister’s idea, ‘I have always been under the impression that men prefer their women quiet and docile, demure and obedient – not outgoing and outspoken.’

‘As true as I am my brother's sister, trust me, I taught him well to value a woman's strength.’, the shieldmaiden said with a triumphant laugh but seeing that the shy Queen was still unsure of what to do, she continued, ‘Talk to him, Lothíriel, approach him. He will appreciate it, and sooner or later, he will be more considerate towards you and your needs as a person, and as a woman. As for me, I think it’s high-time my beloved big brother and I have a serious talk.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUN FACT #1: I love embroidery, and in the cold autumn and winter months, in front of the telly, it's my favourite way to keep my fingers busy (so they can't grab any more crisps!).
> 
> FUN FACT #2: Unfortunately, sex talk, unsually - and even nowaydays - seldom involves pleasure or consent, only reproduction. I thought I should remedy that. There you have it, now you know why this chapter simply had to happen.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here I am, guys, gals and non-binary pals! (That is such a good shout-out, I had to use it at least once in a lifetime ...)
> 
> Thanks to all the people that commented, favourited, put alerts on this and even just read this story.
> 
> You're all amazing!
> 
> Next update next friday! Til then ...
> 
> Read and enjoy and spread a little love by leaving a comment!

**5\. Brother and Sister**

With a sigh that spoke more of relief than it spoke of bitterness, Éomer entered the stables with long, weary steps, passing the many boxes filled with steeds of impeccable condition, all belonging to the royal household and the nobler people of the capital, until he arrived at his destination at long last. Pulling out a fresh carrot, dangling it in front of the barred box, the stallion quickly came out of the shadows, and what a fine beast it truly was! A proud white head shaking the silver mane, strong flanks that showed an energetic body chequered in grey and white, and dark-grey legs that had faithfully carried this noble beast and its master into a hundred battles and rides.

‘Hello, old friend.’, the king, that was now only a man, said, and handed the treat over to his eager four-legged companion. Leaning on the bars, watching the animal devour the carrot almost in one bite, languorously chomping away, Éomer stroked its neck and hide with an unusual amount of affection that was reserved only for those friends closest to him, speaking of a bond between horse and rider that had lasted for many, many years. The great grey stallion by the name of Firefoot, having devoured his little snack, now greeted his master in appropriate fashion, shaking his mane, throwing his head back and forth as though in a nodding movement, before giving his friend and master an affectionate albeit clumsy nudge.

‘Yeah, I missed you, too, mate.’, Éomer chuckled slightly as he stroked his animal friend behind the ear, earning him a whinnying sound of affectionate approval and perhaps even a little disappointment for the small amount of treats. For a moment he smiled freely, as much and as happily as he hadn’t done in a long, long while, but then the smile was gone, as quickly as it had come it had vanished again, and with its disappearance the sombre thoughts returned.

With another sigh – and this time it spoke only of bitterness – the king could not help the old worries return with their full might and with them came new worries, and some of them even heavier than the old ones. Busying himself with saddling his horse, Éomer tried, unsuccessfully, to block out the thousand and one worries and thoughts that, by now, seemed to plague almost every hour of his day.

In the mornings he woke with a heavy feeling in his stomach that told him he had no business sleeping in the king’s bed. When he got ready for the day, washing his face, looking up in the mirror, he was met with a face that was not the face of a king. When he donned his crown (which he did not do very often, mind you) for official audiences and council meetings, he felt its weight doubling, bearing down on him, telling him that he didn’t have the makings of a king. In the evenings when at last he went to sleep, he would find none, because even in the subconsciousness of his dreams he would be followed by his perceived certainty that he was neither a true king nor ever would be.

To be eaten up alive by doubts and worries about your own self-worth, that alone would have been enough to drive any man insane and to look for the smallest retreat in the unlikeliest of places; but he was not any man, he was a king, and what was more, he was king to a country that appeared to drown in more and more problems every day. Not only was the _Westemnet_ still crawling with enemies from _Dunland_ , wild, dirty, vicious men without sense and honour; but lately bands of renegades from among his own people had formed, men, old and new, boys even, who roamed the wild, driven to cruelty and thieving by desperation, loss and hunger – and that, too, was an ever growing problem.

After all, just because the war was over, it didn’t mean that all was well: they had been victorious on the battlefield, yes, but their victory was a hollow one – as to be expected with the outcome of any war, the harvest was poor and hunger was rampant, and this war had not been like any other. This war had been a new one, and it had come to their very homes, had raged in their very hearts; and amidst the carnage and the killing, the wanton destruction and the loss of family and friends, the realisation had dawned on them that they were no longer untouched or unscathed by it – they had won, yes, but the price for it they were still paying.

So, of course, worries weighed him down greatly, almost more than the burden of his own self-doubts, even more so because it seemed that there was not a single damned thing he could do about the suffering of his own people. Every day, for months now, council meeting chased council meeting, one bleaker than the other, each detailing the true scope of the poor harvest, the lack of food, the lawlessness that disturbed the peace of the outer regions and the omnipresent threat of old enemies lashing out again and again – and he did not know how to phrase it, how to nail it down, but if he were to find words for it: he was simply fed up with it, exhausted, overwhelmed.

As he saw it he had neither the training nor the makings of a good king. And as he forced himself to suffer through meeting after meeting, to make political decisions that felt worse and worse by the day, to endure the endless and useless debates of his councillors, it became clearer to him more and more that he was not cut out for this – and the only true retreat, it would seem, that he had left were his morning rides. On top of his faithful steed and closest companion, for once, he did not have to think of his own short-comings or the misery of his people, and while kicking his boots into the flanks of his stallion and spurring him on, for once, he could forget all of his worries and his self-doubts.

Therefore it was understandable that Éomer king was less than thrilled – when he had finally prepared his steed, after he had saddled and bridled him, when at last he led him towards the entrance of the stables, ready to leave it all behind, at least for an hour or so – that he was met with the bright smile and mischievous wink of his sister Éowyn.

‘Good morning, brother.’, she hummed with a cheeky tone, and there was something about the way she leaned again the stable doors, the way her arms were folded, that told that she was up to no good – more than usually. Sighing with no little amount of vexation, Éomer rolled his eyes at his sister, barely trying to hide his annoyance, and he didn’t know what bugged him more in this moment – the fact that she had managed to disturb the only time of his day that was truly his, or that she had managed to startle him with her devilish lightness of foot, even if his pride as a warrior would not allow him to admit to such. Truly, ever since she had taken up her studies of proper conversation and proper dancing and proper curtseying and other proper lady-like nonsense she had become remarkably stealthy in her steps, almost frighteningly so.

‘What do you want now, Éowyn? I’m kind of in the middle of something here.’, he grunted pointedly and pulled at the reins, leading his horse further towards the entrance of the stables, hoping that she would catch his more or less subtle implication and it would be enough to discourage her from any further intrusion in his private hobby, but he would be disappointed, because as he neared the doors, the shieldmaiden simply stepped in front of him, barring the way with a smile unparalleled in its cheekiness, ‘Do I need a reason to join my beloved brother in a morning ride?’

‘Listen, Éowyn – ’, he started, feeling the impatience tugging at him – after all, she had just interrupted one of the last simple joys he had as the king of a struggling kingdom – which explained why his words came out harder than necessary, ‘I really don’t have time for your nonsense right now. I’ll be overseeing two trials later, siting through three different meetings with my councillors and I’m not particularly looking forward either to suffering through yet another painful calculation session with the royal tax collector – so, if you don’t mind, allow me some time for myself!’

‘Oh, fear not, brother, in a few months’ time you’ll be having all the time for yourself.’, she countered coldly then; with a flash her smile had vanished and she turned sombre and serious. It was a low blow and they both knew it, but it was effective all the same. All of the sudden the air between them shifted – it was no longer the tension of everyday life as an unwilling king or the mischief of a _slightly_ intrusive shieldmaiden, but instead it was the melancholic heaviness of their upcoming separation that hung over them both. It was true, in their day-to-day life it was easy to block out her upcoming wedding; in the hustle and bustle of everyday life it was easy to block out that all that preparation, all the lessons and dresses, that all of this would eventually lead to the departure of his sister and it would mean the inevitable separation of the once so inseparable siblings.

Éomer froze, closed his eyes and sighed, feeling the sting of something tug at his heart. He loved his sister, more than anything in the world he loved her, and he wished nothing more than for her to find the happiness she deserved, and yet he would have sold his crown, his kingdom, his sword and _his horse_ – if only she could have found that happiness here and not out there, in the treacherous South, so far from their home. It had always been them against the world; since they were children, since their parents had died, she had relied on him and he had relied on her; they were each other’s mirror, they were so similar, in their strengths and also in their faults – but soon they would no longer be a team, soon enough she would be gone. Any brother who had a sister that he loved would feel the pain that he felt at that exact realisation, and perhaps it even was that feeling of dread that led to him caving in.

‘I’ll wait.’

At his yielding his sister beamed with unbound glee and rushed to him to plant an affectionate and no less triumphant kiss on his cheek before running off to prepare her own horse for a ride-out. Looking over his shoulder he saw her saddle and bridle the mare she had been given upon their return from Minas Tirith, and it seemed almost a lifetime ago, though he remembered it as if it had been yesterday. According to their traditions and given the renown she had won in the battle on the _Pelennor_ field she had been honoured along with all the other warriors and that typically involved the gifting of a horse of their own choosing. Now of course it had been a little bit unusual for a woman to be honoured for her deeds in battle, but his sister, undoubtedly, was a great shieldmaiden, and even if she would never be a knight in the sense that the other honoured warriors were made to be, she was still a warrior that had won renown and for the Riddermark and its people and its king she would forever be the _Lady of the Shield-Arm_.

‘As it so happens, I _do_ have one thing I wanted to talk to you about.’

Torn out of his thoughts, Éomer looked back to see his sister coming towards him, pulling her mare along, her face the mask of a child pretending innocently not to be responsible for a cheeky prank – oh, he knew that face, he had seen a thousand times before, and he knew it was never a good sign. Rolling his eyes he started to walk – perhaps he could outpace her and whatever it was she wanted to talk about? – but his sister came straight after him, and so he simply sighed, ‘Here we go again.’

‘You know, I’ve had a lovely little chat with your lovely little wife. Charming woman, really quite charming.’, his sister began, eagerly trying to keep up with his walking pace as they slowly but surely left the stables behind.

‘Is there a point to all of this, Éowyn? Or are just flexing your new-found lady-skills on me? Because if you are, I really don’t have the – ’

‘I also had a lovely little chat with our two favourite maids.’, she countered, ignoring his annoyed interjection, ‘As it would seem not all is well in the golden bedchamber of Meduseld?’

At this Éomer stopped dead in his tracks, for a moment desperate enough to pretend that he had not just heard what she had very much just said, but as he turned to her and beheld the challenge that sparkled in her grass-green eyes he knew there was no way he would get out of this so easily.

‘No, I’m not having this conversation with you.’, he said sternly, and with that he simply put his boot in his stirrup and swung himself on the back of his horse, trying to put some distance between himself and his sister, trying to put an end to this conversation before it had even begun. But Éowyn was not so easily discouraged, and he should have known she wouldn’t leave it at that, she was a shieldmaiden after all and his sister; and so she simply mounted her mare and came straight after him, unrelenting in her insistence, ‘Oh, yes, you will, dear brother.’

‘No, Éowyn. _No_.’, he refused once more, this time with even more force, shaking his head, the warning clear in his voice but she was too much like him to heed it.

‘Brother, there is no shame if one needs a little help – ’

‘ _I don’t need help._ ’, he growled with smouldering anger, the words, quite menacing in their tone, pressed through clenched teeth, ‘ _I know how it’s done._ ’

‘Well, obviously, if that were the case, I wouldn’t be here now, would I?’, she questioned sweetly, but the bite in her words was barely masked by her sweet tone and even sweeter smile, and though her brother mumbled something to himself (and it was the only real sign he showed that he even acknowledged her at this point) it was too low for her to make out what it was, though she doubted not that he had long come to regret his brotherly indulgence from before. With a cheeky smile that hid a serious endeavour she pushed on, intent on pulling him out of his comfort zone, ‘I know it can be tough for a man sometimes to admit to a lack with regard to certain qualities in – ’

‘There is no lack regarding any qualities here, Éowyn!’, he shouted then, whipping around so quickly it very nearly spooked their horses and very much drew more than just a couple of eyes towards them; noticing this, they both spurred on their horses before the king took a deep breath and continued with a lower voice but with no less threatening meaning in its tone, ‘And keep your voice down, for _Béma’s_ sake! I’d rather not be embarrassed in front of the whole of the Riddermark, thank you very much.’

‘No lack in any regard, huh?’, the shieldmaiden continued then, tentatively, after a short ride, after a short while, after they had already passed through the gates and slowly but surely left the city-fortress of Edoras behind; generally, she was not a cruel person, and she knew how uncomfortable this conversation was for her brother, but nonetheless it was a conversation that needed to be had, and even if she could be swayed to not take a swing at his pride in the earshot of others, it didn’t mean she would be very mindful of that pride on the whole, ‘Well, apparently, your wife seems to be of a mind to disagree.’

And that did the trick. The King of the Riddermark stopped his horse dead in its tracks, clearly rattled, though he was too proud to grace her with any direct answer nor did he acknowledge her so much as to turn around. But it mattered not, she had achieved what she had set out to do. As she had expected, one word, one mention of his wife and the mighty warrior was caught off his guard. But Éowyn only smiled as she stopped her mare next to him; she had long figured out her brother’s feelings for his little wife, and no matter how many walls he sought to build, the embers of it were smouldering relentlessly, and he could deny it all he wanted but he wouldn’t fool her. Her brother had been in love with his wife the moment he had laid eyes on her for the very first time, and all he had left to do now was to realise it.

‘Your reaction seems to suggest at least a minimum of regard for her feelings, and that’s good.’, the shieldmaiden started cautiously and her keen eyes did not miss the way his shoulders tensed at her words and it was the tension of a man afraid to be found out and the dread of something more coming, and he would not have been wrong as his sister was prepared to wage an all-out war to have him surrender and see reason, even at the cost of manly pride and sibling love, ‘You know what would be even better? If you were to find some of that manly prowess and started to act on that regard.’

Éowyn watched with satisfaction as the mighty king shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, the tips of his ears turning red and redder – the tell-tale signs of brotherly flushing. And though he didn’t turn around to show that reddish embodiment of his inner turmoil, she knew him well enough to predict with impeccable accuracy that right now her beloved brother was blushing in the brightest scarlet red, though whether embarrassment was the cause of it or rather anger, or perhaps even both, she could not say. But other than that he gave no further reaction to her provocation; no, a brisk and brusque response was all the answer he was willing to give.

‘I’m not having this talk with you.’

Shaking his head in that no-nonsense manner of his, the king spurred on his horse gently, leaving his sister behind, leaving the shieldmaiden to spur on her mare in return and to follow in pursuit.

‘Oh, we are having this talk, dear brother, whether you like it or not!’

‘I’m not listening … ’, he repeated again and again while pushing on his stallion, perhaps believing, naively so, that he could outpace her as well as this conversation, but he should have known her better than that, she was relentless in her inquisitiveness and merciless in her sisterly care.

‘If I may be so bold as to suggest a few things that I think would greatly improve your … ah, marital relations.’, the shieldmaiden called out to him, her voice a little louder than possibly acceptable, but then again she had to fight against the wind coming their way and also reach her brother who, ever so vehemently shaking his head, seemed to try his darnedest to stay out of earshot of her, ‘Why not gift her with a present or two? Or spend some quality time, do something she likes? Or, you know, talk to her … in complete sentences, for a change?’

Here, Éowyn paused for a moment, cautiously gauging his reaction and mood for that typical short temper of his, but the king only grunted dismissively as she caught up to him, ‘Of course, maybe you are both more physical creatures, but fear not, I can give you some proper advice here too. How about holding hands then? I heard the Southern ladies all like their hands to be smooched. And kissing – Béma! Don’t be too shy with the kissing! Not a wet, sloppy horse kiss, mind you, but not a nibble peck either. Take your time, let her get her bearing, let her feel it. And hands, _Béma_! – I could describe to you a whole world of what your hands could do. For example, when you caress her neck, make sure you – ’

‘And how exactly is it that you know these things?! Eh, Éowyn?!’, whipping around all of the sudden, he stopped them both dead in their tracks, as the horses beneath them started to paw the ground nervously, agitated by the sudden shouting. Honestly, it was near impossible for her not to grin in that very moment; for him to be so predictable, that the simplest push of the right buttons could have him explode like the walls of the _Hornburg_ , and her own black powder were words, just simple, teasing words, and yet it did the trick. Still she wouldn’t be so foolish as to laugh at him in that moment; oh, no, she knew this was dangerous territory, and for all her gleeful satisfaction at his infuriation, she knew better than to mock him for it – in his wrath her dear brother’s mind was razor sharp and his patience icy thin.

‘T-there are a great deal of books on the subject – if you’d care to read them.’

Éowyn lied here really more than she deflected – and they both knew it – but she did not want to stir his wrath any further by admitting to some dangerous secrets no younger sister should share with her older brother. Éomer eyed her suspiciously and she knew by the look on his face that a long-time puzzle was slowly but surely piecing itself together, and thus it wasn’t too far-fetched that she would seek to focus his attention elsewhere, away from her and back onto somebody else. After all, she knew for a fact that she wouldn’t be too thrilled about becoming a widow before she’d even been a bride.

‘ _Books_?’

‘ _Books_ , yes. Books cannot only improve the mind, but also the heart and the hand and the tongue.’

For a moment they faced each other and the two of them measured one another with a challenging look, neither of them willing to yield in this stalemate of looks and words and assessment. They both knew she was talking about more than just books here, but rather played at his wife through mentioning her passion for reading, and they both knew she didn’t really get her _knowledge_ merely from the yellowed pages of dusty books – but the moment they acknowledged either of these truths, dangerous paths to dangerous truths and dangerous feelings could be opened. So, instead, for both of them, feigning ignorance seemed the only viable and safe solution in that moment. Éomer was the first to turn his horse and continue his riding at a slow yet determined pace, and Éowyn followed suit but she wasn’t ready to give up her quest just yet.

‘You know, one book I read suggested something quite astounding.’, the shieldmaiden started again, and she could see by the way his shoulders tensed again that he was near his breaking point and so she pushed on, hoping for some sunshine after the thunder and the lightening and the rain, ‘Did you know that with your tongue – ’

‘ENOUGH!’, he boomed then, shouting as he pulled his horse around to face her with the whole might of his rage: face flushed, eyes glaring, teeth bared, ‘Will you shut up already?! I am not having this conversation with you.’

‘Ah, and why is that?! Because I’m unmarried?! As I recall that didn’t stop you from gossiping with your drinking buddies! And it most certainly didn’t stop you or your _éored_ fan club from painting _Auld_ _Town_ red!’, Éowyn countered then, leading her mare next to him to (be) level with him, and the shieldmaiden was just as equally enraged as her king, but that was only to be expected, for in their fury brother and sister were equally matched, ‘Or is it because I’m a woman?! Because if it is, brother, let me tell you – ’

‘Because you’re my sister!’, he bellowed then, interrupting her, and now there was no stopping him; with his eyes wide in anger, his face red with wrath, a dark vein pulsing thickly on his forehead, his temper was a fearsome thing to behold, ‘These are not things any brother should discuss with his sister – at any time!’, his booming voice became a roar, spooking the horses as he talked himself into a veritable rage, ‘I mean – don’t you get it? I don’t want your help, I don’t want your advice and I don’t want you meddling in my affairs, Éowyn! It’s none of your fucking business!’

‘Oh, it _is_ my fucking business!’, Éowyn countered, her own fury rising to meet the challenge, ‘I care about you and I care about your wife, and I care if this marriage succeeds. So, if you’d be so kind as to pull that horse’s head out of your arse, and just listen to – ’

‘But you’re not even part of this marriage! For _Béma’s_ sake! You’re not even married, so what would you really know about it? You’re just a tomboy in a woman’s dress, jealous of all the things married people do, and angry with me because of that year-long betrothal – and now you’re purposefully getting on my nerves just to spite me!’, Éomer laughed cheerlessly, as though congratulating himself for seeing right through her, but soon enough that laughter turned into a wolfish grin, his eyes closing in on her assumed weakness and the perceived cues, ‘But perhaps, I’m wrong about that, too? Eh? Perhaps I’m blessed to be in the presence of a true marriage expert? _Books_ , huh? Or, perhaps, I should rather challenge your betrothed for a duel?! Or, perhaps, tonight, when I take my lady to bed, you’re going to lend us a hand there, too?’

The slap that followed hit so hard you would have even heard it echo high up into the Misty Mountains.

For a moment all was quiet and both brother and sister were struck silent, frozen in shock, and their heavy, laborious breathing was the only sound that could be heard cutting through the eerie silence. Shaking, Éowyn pulled her hand back, balling it into a fist so tight her knuckles turned white, and perhaps she merely wanted to keep herself from striking her hard-headed ass of a brother once again, because, in a way, he _was_ right. She was jealous, in a way; she was angry, and damn straight, she was spiteful – a year of betrothal, a year of waiting, a year of separation; it might as well have been a lifetime for two souls of such love and such devotion and such hunger. And for what? A brother who couldn’t let go of his sister? A brother who couldn’t bear to give his sister to another man? Or, perhaps, a man so unhappy in his life and marriage he begrudged others their happiness and joy of love? And yet, somehow, despite all her envy and her spite, she still genuinely cared for her brother and his wife and the happiness they perhaps, one day, could have.

Éomer blinked rapidly, shaking his head, trying to get his head out of that numb, shocked feeling, trying to silence the ringing in his ears or to ignore the stars dancing tauntingly before his eyes. _Béma_ , save him! A moment ago he would have thought she had knocked the head from his shoulders clean off. Woman or not, his sister could punch the teeth straight out of a grown man’s face, so he should probably count himself lucky her kneecaps were too busy holding her on top of that horse.

‘D-did you just slap me?’

Éomer couldn’t quite place the tone of his voice there, though, to be fair, he couldn’t quite place the emotion behind it either: was he angry, stupefied or even amused? Perhaps, all of it together; and judging by the look of his sister’s face, she was roughly in the exact same state of mind.

‘Well, you needed to snap out of it!’

Ah, but there was the difference. Of course, she was stunned and more or less low-key amused, and most assuredly, she was angry with him, but there was something else as well: hurt. Yes, there was hurt; but not the hurt of a scorned lover, nor the hurt of a lost love, nor the hurt of a parting sibling either – it was the hurt of betrayal. For him to deny her the joys of love because he himself denied himself such; it was the small-mindedness of a bitterly stubborn man, blind to the truth, refusing to fight out of fear to lose – and for such a man to be faced with another one’s light and love and happiness, well, let’s just say, it was easier to openly scorn it than to admit to secretly yearn for it.

And so it was that the king found his fury tempered, and his eyes softened, and whatever blow she had dealt, had reached more than just his cheek. As he looked into her eyes, shiny with tears she was too proud to acknowledge, her lips trembling with anger as much as with hurt, and her cheeks flushed in a deep red, he knew he had fucked up. Sure, bickering had been a constant part of their relationship, nagging an essential part of their everyday communication – it was simply how they chose to show affection for one another. But this here had been more than cheeky comments and viciously good-natured teasing; he had crossed a line, and they both knew it.

So, how best to put that horseshoe back on that hoof? How best to apologise? How best to mend the bond that harsh words and quick temper had strained?

‘Did you just attack your lord and king?’

‘Lord and king?!’, Éowyn snorted; her eyes widening for a moment in disbelief and shocked surprise, and if she laughed, it was still more out of mockery than out of true amusement, but it mattered not – his sister laughed, and she smiled, and all tears and hurt and hard truths paled in the sheer brightness of its happy light. Besides, it would keep her mind off more private affairs for a while.

‘Attacking your king is a crime punishable by death.’, the grim king added, but by now even he couldn’t quite keep the grin off his face; still they continued their farce, determined to see it through to the end. After all, jokes and teasing always came easier to them than sensitive words and heartfelt pleas, and yet the apology and love was there – just somewhere between biting wit and mocking quips.

‘Attack? _Attack_?! You call that an attack?!’, the shieldmaiden scoffed with well-played indignation, ‘And where does it say that, anyway? I don’t recall any of that!’, she continued, and now her indignation turned to conspirational cheekiness, and the grin that split her mouth from ear to ear, flashing sharp white teeth, made her look like the proverbial cat that ate the canary, ‘What I do recall, however, is our ancient tradition that any member of the House of Eorl can challenge another member for the crown. So – if I were to beat you – ’

‘Beat me?’

‘ – I would become Éowyn Queen, Mistress of the Riddermark!’

It was then that he finally broke out in a roaring laughter, unable to contain himself any longer, spooking their horses once more, and though his sister grinned heartily, she at least managed to hold back her laughter long enough to chide him for his, ‘Laugh all you like, brother. I’ve beaten you before – I could do it again.’

‘Éowyn, we were kids.’, he protested then in a semi-annoyed tone, once he recovered from his laughing attack and could breathe again, shaking his head at this resurgence of a debate they had been having for as long as he had been old enough to hold a sword and for her to be old enough to try and steal it from him, ‘I’ve told you a thousand times: the sun was in my eyes – ’

‘ – and the floor was muddy, and you tripped over a root … I know.’ , the shieldmaiden finished with a wolf-like grin, as she gave her mare a nudge with the back of her heels to make the beast fall into a slow, lazy walking pace; and with a look thrown over her shoulder – so as to challenge her brother to follow her – she added, ‘You keep telling yourself that, brother. You might even believe it one day.’

Shaking his head, Éomer smiled, and his annoyance was only outmatched by his amusement, and by the glad feeling that not only was his sister appeased but also were other, more private affairs left … well, relatively private. However, as he cued Firefoot to follow his sister – nay, not follow; _overtake_ her (after all, a leader should always _lead_ , should he not?), he learned once more that the shieldmaiden’s determination was a fearsome thing to behold.

‘Now, as I was saying, that thing you can do with your tongue … ’, Éowyn started again, but the king only groaned and rolled his eyes – being wise enough to know when a battle was lost – before he pushed his heels into the flanks of his stallion and galloped off. Far away from any worries, or doubts, or decidedly unhelpful helping sisters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUN FACT #1: As you can see, the unparalleled communication skills, apparently, run in the Eorl family ... *facepalms in Rohirric*
> 
> FUN FACT #2: I have in fact an older brother and a twin sister. All three of us were named after Christian saints - so, if, in a few years, you'll be reading about a woman giving birth to a boy she named Jesus, well, what can I say, you'll know it's me ...
> 
> FUN FACT #3: I'm insanely curious about the upcoming Middle Earth show. How about you? Are you curious at all? (If you have intel - I'll take that too ...)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are, at the turn of the tides (for good or worse in these Corona times ... =0)!
> 
> Thanks to all the people that have read, liked, commented and followed this story - it means a lot to me!
> 
> Enjoy reading and spread a little love by leaving a comment!

**6\. Turn to a new page**

Lothíriel was still thinking, still lost in thought, still contemplating the words and advice her sister-in-law had given her only a few days ago, while she was busy preparing herself for the night. The advice had sounded so simple, so seemingly easy to put into action – to just talk to him, to open up to him – and yet for her nothing seemed more difficult. She had never been a person who found it easy to approach people directly, and to be forward in her advances, or to engage in conversations of depth and meaning with a person she neither knew nor fully trusted, and with him it seemed even more difficult.

It was not that she feared him. Although in the beginning there had been fear, it had vanished as she had experienced his kindness and respect. It was more that she felt intimidated by him, as he was a man of fierce and grim determination and prowess; she knew him as a warrior capable of great deeds, and of great violence, and she knew him as a man bound to duty, sacrificing himself and his own wishes for the good of his people. He was a man who had seen much and more and who saw easily into the hearts of men, and she often wondered if anyone could withstand his gaze and hold up in his eyes to the standards he set for himself and for others.

She knew she felt herself lacking in his eyes. Éowyn had told her that a great king was in need of a great queen, but the greatness her sister-in-law saw in her was something she would not see herself. After all, who was she, to her husband, or to his people? Only some little Southern princess whose eyes had seen very little of the world, whose father’s words and command rang bitter and foreboding in her mind, who feared almost everything, from men to horses to frank speech, and most of all she feared herself – feared to not be able to live up to the expectations of others, or her own, feared to disappoint and to let down. How could someone like that ever be a good Queen to such a good people? How could someone like that ever be a great Queen to such a great King?

She knew she had to be brave and she knew she had to be strong, but having grown up as a princess of the House of Dol Amroth, and having grown up at the courts of the South, strength and bravery had not been the characteristics expected and respected in a true lady. She had been taught to sing and dance, to please and smile – to be a perfect daughter and later a perfect bride, and to represent with perfection the image of an accomplished lady, but no more. Unfortunately, she had already failed at that on those rare occasions when she had dared to break free from her corset of ladylike expectations and limitations.

When she had been too young yet to be considered a lady, she had dared to venture forth in the seafaring spirit of her people and along with her brother, Amrothos, closest to her in age, if not always in spirit, she had mastered almost every boat or ship and sailed them all around the Bay of Belfalas, ever dreaming of bracing the waves of the never ending Great Sea. And later on, while the other ladies had engaged in their intrigue and gossip, planning on ensnaring eligible bachelors of great social standing in their nets, or endured to be married off to men twice or even thrice their age, she had found her true calling in the arts of healing – and had she not been a healer of great skill and in great demand in Minas Tirith when the Greatest City of Men had been under attack? Her father, however, had remained unimpressed by her skills, and more than that, he had been outraged, chiding her that a lady’s place was not on a ship steering the wheel, and that a lady’s place was not amidst the death and ruin of a city, getting her hands dirty.

Ever since she had been old enough to wear a lady’s gown – having outgrown her maiden dresses once her maiden blood had started to flow – her father had not allowed her to forget where a lady’s place was, and where her place was supposed to be. No more sailing for her, instead a carriage awaited her, full of other women who were only allowed to talk about the same boring matters; no more racing astride a horse across the beach, instead she was forced into a tight corset under a fine gown, sitting meekly on top a meek mare, squeezed into a fine side-saddle. She had learned to cook and embroider, had learned to dance and sing to the tune dictated to her, had learned her histories and lore, so she could recite them at a moment’s need.

Over time she had learned to use her appearance as a weapon, for it was the only weapon she was allowed to wield. And though her tongue and mind had been sharpened through hours of partaking in verbal sparring duels, as though they were her whet stones, her verbal sparring partners had been the other ladies of the court only, and their morsels of gossip, for in the presence of other lords and gentlemen her lord father had discouraged her from sharp or witty speech, believing her as a princess of Dol Amroth to be above such idle womanish fancies.

All in all, because of her sex, she had been excluded from any real physical activity, and had been excluded from any real exertion of her intellect. Oh, yes, sure, she had had an extensive education in matters of history, politics, economics, philosophy, literature, art and mathematics, but only insofar it would allow her to run a household with success or to not appear dimwitted in upper-class conversations, and it was never meant for her to actually exert real influence or wield real, strong power.

But here in the Riddermark, in contrast to the courts of the South, queens were meant to be partners to a king, and not just the royal mares that bore royal foals; here, she had to show the strength and will to lead, and not just to follow. But how could she ever be expected to succeed in something she had been barred and discouraged from all her life? _With time and with learning_ , a small voice inside her answered, and she knew that voice, for she had heard it before, in her childhood, in her time as a healer, and now again through her conversations with her sister-in-law. Truly, it was an easy feat to learn the language (at least, that’s what she hoped!) and to memorise the different counties and laws and ways this country was run, but it was quite another thing to actually act on it: to converse freely and frankly with those strangers around her and to take the reins of power at her husband’s side, to step in when he was absent and to lead these people, _her_ people, with the strength and wisdom expected of a leader and a ruler.

All in all, she knew it would be hard work for her to become a great queen to such a great king, and though she was willing, she was also uncertain. She knew she had the support and belief of her sister-in-law, but she was not so sure when it came to her husband. Did he support her efforts of grooming herself for her role of the Queen of the Riddermark? Or did he merely appreciate her trying to learn the language and mechanisms of his country, smiling as if it were a passing fancy of little consequence? Or did he even dislike her new interests, seeing it as a Southerner preparing to intrude in Northern business, or even a woman meddling in the affairs of men? It was as impossible to discern his thoughts on her interests and efforts as it was to deduce his thoughts on her in general; granted, she knew that he appreciated her as a wife when it came to … to her appearance, but apart from that, his wild green eyes gave away nothing. He was simply as unreadable to her as those books and scrolls written in a language she had little hope of ever mastering.

Lothíriel uttered a sigh that spoke of her heavy heart and she resumed to brush out her hair.

But while the Queen of the Riddermark was busy with her nightly preparations and her troubled thoughts, she did not notice the King of the Riddermark stealing himself into their chambers. Éomer opened and closed the door with care, slipping inside, keeping her unawares of his presence, and one might have been easily led to believe that his cause for such stealth was to not disturb his lady-wife in thoughts or sleep, but it was not so. Under his left arm, carefully hidden from sight, a stack of books and scrolls was pinned, and he now sought to tiptoe past his wife to more or less secretly place them on top of the bed, but he was not quite so lucky. Although he possessed the grace and stealth of a mighty warrior, he was more a soldier than an assassin, suited for open battle rather than secrecy and surprise, and thus his presence did not remain unknown for long.

Éomer had only just started to descend down the two steps leading to the sleeping area of their chambers when his young wife seemed to sense him and turned around, startled as usual, staring at him with eyes as large as the ocean she seemed to have called home. It seemed that the King of the Riddermark would have been found out, now and then, had it not been for his quick reflexes, hiding the stack of books behind his back, as quick as the horses who seemed to run in his very blood. And although his wife did not miss that he tried to hide something from her, she was too shy yet, and too well-bred, to inquire further. Instead, she averted her gaze, as usual, trying to escape his piercing eyes, and resumed her nightly preparations, and he could sense more than he could see how she physically shied away from him as he descended the steps to walk over to the bed.

The king of the Riddermark sighed, and he was not sure whether it was the relief of not having his secret spoiled just yet, or whether it was the disappointment and regret of his wife still shying away from him, or perhaps it was a bit of both. In that moment the wild horses of the northern plains of the Riddermark came to his mind, and he almost dared to liken those animals shy of contact to his wife, but then again, those beasts did not shy away out of fear but out of choice; his wife did fear him, and she did shy away because of that fear.

A part of him, surely, could understand her sentiment, after all, he was an intimidating man. He talked little and he smiled even less, if ever – not a very enticing or socialising characteristic. Of course, that hadn’t always been the case. He vaguely remembered a time when he had been happy, remembering happy afternoons spent grooming a pony together with his sister, or an evening listening to his father’s warrior tales, his mother humming along with it, always a smile waiting to spring onto her lips. But after his father had been killed there were no more smiles. He remembered his sister crying in confusion, too young yet to understand the finality and dread of death, what it meant that their father would never come home again. He remembered his mother crying, and after the crying she had become quiet, staring into nothingness, with life barely holding on to her – death, at that point, had been a mere formality.

After that, there hadn’t been much reason for smiles in his life. But instead of allowing grief to conquer him, he had sought refuge in his training. From then on, riding and practice with sword and spear had determined his days, and between that and his studies of warfare strategies and basic economics he had had little time to waste thoughts on either sadness or happiness. He knew he was content. After the passing of his parents, he and Éowyn had come to live with his uncle and under the tutelage of the king he had fulfilled his life-long dream of stepping into his father’s footsteps and becoming a Marshall of the Riddermark. He had wanted no more; he had been content. Serving his king, serving the Mark, scouting this country that he loved in the brotherhood he had found among his _éored_ , it was all he had wanted, and fame or riches had been as meaningless to him as power or influence. Yes, he had been content; not happy, perhaps, but content.

All of that had changed, however, when his cousin Théodred had been slain, and once again he had been torn from his comfort zone and thrown into the chaos. Théodred had always been the heir, and he had always been groomed as such. Éomer, however, had never had the makings of a king: he hated endless talks about politics, more comfortable in making decisions on the battlefield than in a throne room, more comfortable on the back of a horse than the seat of a throne. And yet, he had been compelled to take a responsibility which he believed himself unfit to bear. But it could not be helped, and for this country that he loved he would bear almost anything.

However now it almost seemed more than he could possibly bear: constant worry had weighed down on him, doubt troubled him and despair ate away at the strength he sought to show. He knew he was not the king everyone expected him to be – after almost two years the Riddermark had still not recovered from the shadows of war, and though the people looked to him for guidance, he could see it in their eyes that their hope and trust faded. And even his sister, though angry over having to prolong her engagement, had remained with him longer and longer, trying to help him run the country, trying to help him become the king they needed, and yet, even she seemed doubtful enough to push him towards a union with a woman coming from a line of stout politicians and princes.

 _A great king is in need of a great queen_ , she had told him back then, and as she was wont to remind him again and again, but obviously that idea had not come to fruition as that wife of his seemed scared of her very own shadow. But then again, a sheltered young woman leaving her home to live in a strange country with a stranger was expected to be scared, especially if that stranger of a husband talked little, smiled less and seemed an overall grim man with grimmer thoughts and grimmer antics.

Éomer still shuddered in shame when he thought of the incident in the library.

Usually he stayed away from alcohol, detesting the loss of control, but that night he had sought to drown his sorrows, troubles and doubts in it, despairing over the fact that while the House of Eorl only _might_ come to an end under his reign, his country very well _would_. Back then he couldn’t understand why she of all people had come to the library in the middle of the night, daring to witness his weakness and shame, and his dizzy, mead-fused mind had snapped in anger, shouting at her, pushing her, and shocking her when he had allowed himself to break down in front of her, if only for a moment. He remembered the look on her face; yes, she had feared him then, but even worse than that, she had pitied him. And while Éomer might not be a vain or arrogant man, he was proud, and pity was the one thing he could not bear, and thus he had refused to bring up the incident, refused to talk to his wife about it, hoping it would be forgotten, and, judging from his wife’s behaviour, she, apparently, had hoped for the same thing.

Of course, it was only later that he learned why she had come to the library in the first place, in the middle of the night, and perhaps, if he had talked to his wife more often instead of ignoring her he would have found out a lot sooner that it was only a question of time until a book-lover like her would seek out the library of the Golden Hall. Put to shame by his abysmal neglect and his drunken behaviour he had sought to make up for it but he had never been a talker, and sure enough he had talked himself into the next blunder.

And there he was now, his head still reeling from the painful slap on the back of his head that he had received from his sister as she had cornered him a few days ago, to give him a stern talking-to for ignoring his wife’s needs, as she had called it, hammering into him (and quite literally at that!) that he had to start treating her and her interest with some semblance of concern at least. _A horse needs to run free once in a while, otherwise it will wither away_ , she had said, he thought bitterly, suppressing a humourless laugh. It had been no good trying to tell his sister that his wife was neither a horse nor interested, as it would seem, in ever running free or leaving the Hall of Meduseld. _Show some interest; if she likes to read, give her books_ , she had advised – of course, finding books was the easiest thing among a people who were famed for their songs, not for their writing. But in the end he had complied, because, despite all her nagging, his sister was right, as she usually was. Of course, his sweet sister had given him some other advise too, but he shuddered just to think about it and instead steered his thoughts back to the present, task at hand.

And thus it was now that he found himself heading towards the marriage bed, with a stack of books and scrolls pinned under his arms, meaning to place them on the sheets with as much discretion as he had left. He imagined himself to be stealthy, he imagined himself to be inconspicuous, but then again, he didn’t grow up in the courts of the South, he had never been groomed in the arts of secrecy, and his idea of subtlety was a series of grunts and head gestures. Needless to say his gift-bearing did not remain unnoticed for long.

As soon as he had placed the bundle on the bed he turned around; he sought to distance himself from it, to turn around and pretend the stack had nothing to do with him, as though anyone would believe the books and scrolls had simply appeared out of thin air; but, unfortunately, he was once again met with the blueish grey eyes of his wife, now tightened in suspicion and curiosity. Of course, he could have addressed the issue right then and there, it being the most direct approach, but that would have required words to be spoken, and he was not a great talker, after all. Hence, Éomer, king of the Riddermark, simply shirked from her questioning glance and turned to a stool to undress himself, leaving her to unravel the secret for herself.

That was not to say that he was not desperate to witness her reaction or that he did not watch her every step as she stopped brushing her hair and slowly went over to the bed, intrigued, now that it was safe since she believed her husband and king was no longer directly gazing at her. Éomer noticed that she was hesitant (once she had stopped before the bed) to actually touch the stack of books, as though unsure whether it was really there, or whether it was just an imagination. As she stretched out her hand at last, her fingers halted for a second, just a second, before finally reaching the bundled stack.

Éomer halted in his undressing, fully captivated by the expression of pure wonder that radiated from her; the way her fingers gently touched the covers of the books, caressing them with a reverence he had not witnessed before; the way she undid the bindings that held the books together, as though they were already precious to her beyond reason. And when she picked up the thin books one by one at last, handling them with utmost care, the king could see an expression of such tender devotion in his wife’s face as he had never seen before, and a part of him felt almost jealous of the affection she bore those scribbled pages, and he wondered then what it would actually feel like to be at the receiving end of her affection.

Granted, he had never been a man craving for a woman’s love; he had left those daydreams to the bards, to the green boys and gentlemen, while he engaged in more earthly relations. And yet, now, watching her, seeing her as the lovely creature she was, capable of great devotion and affection, he could not but feel that she deserved to be loved and to share the love she had, and he so wished that he could be the one to show her this affection and to receive her affection in return. But alas, he knew that was a dangerous path to follow – for as sweet as love was, it was also bitter as steel, and he had seen first hand how terrible it was to love something that death could touch, and though he doubted not that he was a stronger person than his mother, he knew that love could weaken even the strongest man. And a king could not allow himself to be weak. But even the mightiest king could dream, could he not? And even the mightiest king was only a man.

‘I don’t understand.’

With that Éomer king was torn out of his thoughts, remembering where he was, becoming aware of his hands being frozen in the process of undressing himself, and his young wife staring at him with eyes wide, opened in confusion, with the very objects in her hands that had been the cause of her confusion. Clearing his throat rather theatrically, he tried to diffuse the tension as he saw his young queen lowering her eyes, blushing, having now become aware of his beginning state of undress, too. He loosened his sword-belt, putting it away, starting to take off his waistcoat, and then his shirt; doing everything, just so that he wouldn’t have to meet her eyes as he spoke.

‘Since my lady complained about the lack of books I thought it best to take matters into my own hands.’, he said quietly, trying to speak with a tone that sought to cover the fact that he had tried to please her, but the truth was hard to cover up, and he knew it, feeling himself becoming flustered, seemingly unable to find the right words, oblivious that words were not necessary, ‘Most of those books are about healing and herb lore … my sister mentioned your interest in such things … ’.

Éomer fell silent abruptly when he turned around: his wife stood right before him, one of the little books still clutched in her hands, looking at him with those deep blue eyes, eyes he thought to drown in. He was acutely aware in that moment of two things: first, he realised that he was clad only in his breeches, having thrown off his shirt without remembering it, and secondly, he realised how close they truly were, close enough to see the grey in the blue of her eyes. He felt himself swallowing hard, his Adam's apple jumping tensely as he was looking for the words he seemed to have lost along the way.

‘Not all of them are in the common tongue, unfortunately …’, he mumbled awkwardly, unsure of how to respond to her approaching him, ‘… but I thought that could help – I mean, if you do learn my language, I thought it could, I mean, I thought _I_ could help … like that …’, he stammered on, losing himself in needless explanations that clouded up more than it really cleared up, cursing himself for the mess he was making of it all, ‘It’s nothing of note … ’.

‘It means the world to me.’, she cut him off then, and the deep sincerity in her voice was all it took to render him speechless, and when he finally allowed himself to look at her – to really look at her – he could see the affectionate gratitude in her eyes and a smile of shy but true warmth spread on her summer lips (lips he fought hard not to kiss then and there and frighten her off), and for a moment he thought he forgot how to breathe.

‘Thank you … Éomer.’, she added and at that he was sure his heart skipped a beat.

Never had his name sounded so sweet, and to hear her say it, after so many weeks of respectful distance, it made it sound all the sweeter. And when she took his hand then, and her delicate fingers grasped his large paws with such careful touch, he felt his heart overflow with some strange emotion at this small but significant gesture of advance.

Yes, even a king was only a man, and any man could dream.

 _So that’s what it felt like_ , a voice inside him whispered then, _to love and to be loved in return._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUN FACT #1: I am quite the bookworm. The first book I ever read was The Animals of Farthing Wood - by closer inspection literature a little too graphic for children, but hey, the nineties! So, what's the first book you ever read? And what's the book you're reading right now? (For me: Silence of the Girls by Pat Barker)
> 
> FUN FACT #2: Relationship milestone! Lothíriel addressed her husband by his name for the very first time! *YAY!*
> 
> FUN FACT #3: So, yeah, in my characterisation Lothíriel knows how to sail - and you can bet we'll be utilising that later on. Picture it: Éomer. Boat. Waves. Landlubber.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my darlings and dearies!
> 
> Another friday, another chapter!
> 
> Enjoy and spread a little love by leaving a comment!

**7\. Manners maketh woman**

The light of the February afternoon sun, that shone unusually bright and soft through the window, illuminated the royal chambers and the three women within in a tender and warm light, and Lothíriel Queen could not but smile at the two sister handmaidens that sat left and right of her. Madlen, always the respectful older sister, attended her embroidery with a sense of duty unrivalled by any soldier, while her younger sister Aida had yawned her way through most of the embroidery session, wholly unaware that the white horse upon green she had meant to stitch upon the cloth in her hands resembled more a fat cow than the noble steed representing the emblem of the house of Eorl.

As for herself, Lothíriel had only just finished upgrading one of her light blue Southern gowns to a dress fit for a Northern queen, and now she inspected the fabric between her fingers. And as she held it up into the light, in the warm glow of the afternoon sun, the green of the warm wool dress that she had sewn beneath her own light blue gossamer gown bestowed a shimmering turquoise touch to the dress, and the sight left her thinking.

Just a few days ago, Madlen had sent Aida down to the market in _Auld Town_ to get a bunch of new but simple woollen dresses for the queen, and all of them in the colours of green and white and brown, for them to sew underneath the queen’s own light gowns from the South. Together with both sisters she had chosen then which warm underdress to use for which upper gown, and some dresses and colours fit better than others, as they had come to learn. Blues and browns did not mix well, but her grey gowns mixed well with the new white woollen dresses, and underneath her fine black fabrics the muddy brown wool gave the airy Southern gown an earthy feel and look to it.

But trickiest of all, proved her blue gowns that she meant to stitch together with some green woollen dresses – she knew well, as the queen of the Mark green was the obligatory colour, and yet she shied away from presenting herself so openly in a colour of the earth as she was a maiden of the sea and the colours of blue had clothed her all her life. Thus, she had chosen only a handful of her blue sea-gowns to be mixed with the woollen green dresses of the earth of the Mark, showing with her style that while she was not yet fully rooted in this new land, she also no longer belonged only to the sea. But some of her rich blue gowns, well, some of them she simply could not stand to have succumb to and be used for this new life of hers, some of them – like the light blue dress she had worn for her brother Elphir’s wedding, or the dark-blue lacy gown she had worn for her aunt Ivriniel’s third husband’s funeral – she chose to keep for herself, if not for wearing then at least for remembering.

Lothíriel was pulled out of her thoughts then when Madlen chided her younger sister sternly after young Aida had fallen asleep for only a second and dared to disturb the serene silence with some very loud and very unladylike snoring, prompting dutiful Madlen to fall into a proud and seemingly endless tirade on proper manners and behaviour which her younger sister Aida barely registered and only graced with a handful of hearty yawns. The queen smiled at the picture of the older sister masking her caring streak and motherly touch with her never-ending reminders of propriety and etiquette, while the younger sister seemed all but oblivious to how much her elder sibling cared for her or much the young woman unconsciously craved the motherly care of her older sister.

‘It’s a pity the lady Éowyn couldn’t join us today. Wedding preparations, I believe, have kept her busy.’, Lothíriel spoke then in order to break the silence of the embroidery chamber with a more decent sound than Aida’s snoring, hoping to engage both sisters in a conversation to pass the time and task at hand more enjoyably. At her words the two sisters, who couldn’t be more different, reacted also very differently. Aida’s face brightened, joy and excitement taking hold of her whole posture, and it was unmistakable how much the young handmaiden idolised the shieldmaiden, as much as she idolised and craved all things that were different to her dreary and never-changing everyday life. Madlen, however (who had refused to believe her mistress when she had been told earlier that Éowyn had _meant_ to attend their embroidery session), only rolled her eyes and snorted with barely veiled contempt, her own standards of propriety very unmistakably taking offence at the shieldmaiden’s seeming lack of said propriety.

‘Yes, what a _pity_ the _lady_ Éowyn couldn’t join us. I bet those _wedding preparations_ had four legs and a mane.’, Madlen sneered quietly, returning to her embroidery: a handkerchief for her mistress she wished to embellish with the words of the House of Eorl, _Ride with honour_. Aida, who for all her childish nonsense still picked up on her older sister’s sarcastic tone as well as any dame at court would, growled lowly in her throat, angry at the contempt her sister dared to pour over the young handmaiden’s idol, and lucky for her Madlen didn’t notice her unladylike scowl and subsequently Aida was spared one of her many scoldings.

‘I dare say it’s a pity Éowyn’s not here.’, Aida said with strong emphasis, mostly, if not only, to further aggravate her older sister who only rolled her eyes and shook her head, too _proper_ , too _grown-up_ , to allow herself to be baited by her younger sister’s words, and instead kept focused on her work. Aida, although more or less disappointed with her failure in baiting her sister, went on nevertheless, and the growing enthusiasm in her voice was quite addictive, ‘If she were here, she could tell us all these amazing stories. Of how she defended our women in the Glittering Caves. Or how she knocked our Lord out of his saddle when he was still a boy. Or how she fought that devil-beast in front of the gates of _Mundberg_ – ’

‘Aida, you have heard that story over a thousand times by now! How can you still not have enough of it?!’, Madlen chimed in then all of the sudden, and it was clear that all of her sister’s talking had not passed her by unnoticed, despite all her efforts to ignore her out of spite, but as it would seem, annoyance had finally outweighed defiance.

‘Well, it’s a _good story_.’, the younger sister said with an air of acted innocence, and one could see just how hard she fought not to grin from ear to ear at having succeeded in having her older sibling take her bait and engage her older sister in a talk, despite Madlen’s unspoken resolve to ignore her sister’s talking. Madlen, meeting her sister’s gaze, knew very well that she had been defeated by her younger sibling, and her obvious anger over that made her forget her good manners and prized propriety for a moment and had her answer with the simple anger of an outsmarted young girl, ‘Well, alas! But the shieldmaiden is not here, so whether you like it or not, there will be no grand stories told here today. Alas, more’s the pity!’

‘Perhaps.’, Aida said simply, her eyes shining brightly with delight at having succeeded in getting under her older sister’s skin once more, rattling her cage of finesse and etiquette, before she turned to her queen and mistress with obvious mischief in her eyes, and Lothíriel, partly taken by surprise, partly infected with her young handmaiden’s excitement, felt an old giddiness take hold of her once more that she had thought to have lost such a long time ago, ‘But perhaps our queen will entertain us with a story or two from the South.’

‘Well, I do not have any exciting tales of battles or brawns.’, Lothíriel said slowly, back-peddling, carefully, gingerly trying to temper her young maidservant’s fervent hopes, all the while being aware of the older sister’s expectant gaze, looking for the very image of propriety she tended to idolise her as. With a sigh, and a soft smile, the queen looked from sister to sister, as though caught between the two sides of her very soul – the girl that thrashed against the current of her life like a wild salmon up a stream, and the lady that knew her place with every tone and move and gesture – and decided that it would be impossible to choose which sister to make happy just as much as it was impossible to choose which part of herself she should listen to. And thus, as so often in her life, she chose to tread the middle ground.

‘But I do have some stories to tell about journeys across waters never-ending, waterfalls that flow backwards, knights riding into battle on horses with tails like fish. And I could recite you ballads about honourable knights rescuing their ladylove from thieves in the desert, mermaids who cut their tails into legs to follow their lovers onto the dreary shores, and clever princesses who outsmarted the wisest princes and mightiest lords. Are those the kind of stories you would like to hear?’, out of breath, nearly choking on her own excitement, stopping herself short from talking herself into a frenzy, Lothíriel looked from sister to sister, and when she saw none of the apprehension she had feared, she leaned back in her chair, picked up her own embroidery and began to talk.

Over the course of the afternoon she told the two sisters story after story; some of them fairy tales from her own childhood, told by her own mother each and every single night before she had died; some of them ballads she had heard sung by the bards and singers in the Harper’s Court in Dol Amroth; some of them tales from the hundreds of books she had read in her youth; and some stories were fables with clever lessons to learn from and others were tales with happy endings or endings to cry your heart out to. And Lothíriel realised that she had truly missed this – the company of women, this companionship of women, the air of storytelling enriching everyday chores with mirth and ease, and each story brought with it old memories of female friends she had left behind, and new friends she may have come to find.

One story she told them was the story of the _Waterdaughter_ , and this one had always been her favourite, and only after she had left her home had she truly understood the longing for the sea that this story told of, and that her people were famed for. In the story it was told that Eaulis Nenniel was a mermaid who fell in love with a fisherman by the name of Ceven, and for him alone did she leave the sea, cutting her beautiful fishtail into two pretty little legs, and though every step upon the earth was like walking upon knives, she danced, for she imagined herself happy, for she was in love. But ever did she long for the sea, and ever did she hear her father, _Ulmo_ , God of the Sea, weep for her loss, beckoning her to return home, and when one day her longing became too great, she took but a step into the shallow waters of the beach, and the waves pulled her back into the sea. And as the woman turned into a mermaid again, and her legs became a fishtail once more, she called out to her lover who followed her call of desperate longing and took his boat out to the sea, but he did not heed the storm her father sent in his wrath and was drowned, and it was said that the tears of that poor mermaid had turned the Sundering Sea salty and it was the story of these two unlucky lovers that gave the ocean it’s fateful name.

Another story she told them was the fabled tale of the beginnings of her own house, the fair and noble House of Dol Amroth, and it was as sad a story as the tale of the woeful Elven lady Nimrodel who had lost her beloved to the sea, as the story of her house had always been closely woven into the sorrows of the Elves that had journeyed to the West. In that tale it was told that in the company of Nimrodel rode a fair Elven lady by the name of Mithrellas who together with her mistress meant to travel to the Southern havens to take the ship into the West but it was said that on her way there she became lost in the woods of Dor-en-Ernil. It was none other than Lothíriel’s own ancestor, Imrazôr the Númenórean, who found her in the woods, and quickly took her as his bride. But even though she bore him two children, and her love for her family was greater than the Great Sea itself, her heart ever longed for the sea once she had laid eyes on it, and one day she vanished, as though the very tide had stolen her away, never to be seen again.

‘Milady, all your stories are as grim and blue as the sea!’, Aida chimed in all of the sudden, pulling all of them out of the moment of storytelling, and the young handmaiden was laughing with tears in her eyes, clearly touched by the heartbreak of her mistress’ stories, but also clearly amused by their seriously melancholic natures too, ‘Don’t you know any love stories with a happy ending?’

‘Aida!’, her older sister chided then, rolling her eyes over her sister’s impulsive streak, throwing her hands up in a gesture of defeat and resignation, rising and slowly walking over to her, shaking her head, an almost pained expression grimacing her young and far too serious face. Madlen, perhaps because she was older, or perhaps because that was just her serious and compassionate nature, was far more intuitive in those regards, and easily picked up on her lady’s own longing for her home by the sea through all the stories she had shared with them, and was clearly mortified at her sister’s blunt crudeness, ‘How can you be so insensitive all the time!’

‘But it’s true! It’s always never-ending, death-defying love … that ends with one of them dying! How can anyone stand to be so melodramatic all the time!’, Aida continued, laughing still as she spoke, and her words of defence barely intelligible through her laughter. Her sister standing next to her had already opened her mouth to chide her sister once more when the queen spoke up in defence of her Southern tales, clearly amused by the two sister’s banter, but also melancholic and thoughtful, and a sad smile graced her lips, ‘It’s not love as we know it, it’s the love of dreams and hopes and fears. In real life, love is much simpler, much less honourable and grand, and much less real.’

‘So … you don’t believe in love, milady?’, Aida asked with a mischievous grin, poking her nose in matters again that were none of her business, clearly up to no good. Madlen who noticed the direction her sister’s questioning was taking, boxed her quickly in the side with one of her sharp elbows, widening her eyes with a warning glare, but it was already too late and Aida, who rubbed her side, and Madlen, who shot her daggers with her glare, looked up as Lothíriel spoke then, for the queen had already walked into that trap, ‘I wouldn’t know, dear Aida, I’ve never been in love.’

For a very long moment only awkward silence could be heard, as Lothíriel froze in realisation, slowly but certainly perceiving the scandalous nature of her words and their implications. Of course, no half-way reasonable person would expect declarations of love from a political marriage, but at court what was said and what was the truth, was usually kept rigorously separate as per code of conduct, and even if the word love was not _meant_ , it still had to be _claimed_. Thus the queen felt shocked by her own carelessness, but even more so Madlen, as the handmaiden stood there, trembling lip and wide eyes and all, all her illusions of a perfect lady with perfect manners and perfect poise shattered. Aida meanwhile looked like the proverbial cat that ate the canaries, eyes bright with glee, lips grinning from ear to ear, hands clasped in front of her mouth to suppress the chuckles that were sure to come.

‘E-excuse me, milady, we have already taken up too much of your time.’, Madlen spoke quickly then, almost stumbling over her own words, as she fumbled to grab her little sister by the hand, half pulling her with her, half shoving her towards the door, and Aida could only chuckle weak defences against her older sister’s mumbled accusations, ‘And I do think my sister is in dire need of refreshing her manners.’

‘What?! What did I do? I didn’t do anything!’, Aida protested between fits of laughter while her older sister literally tried to push her out of the door.

‘Oh, don’t pretend, Miss-How-can-I-put-my-foot-even-further-in-my-mouth! You know exactly what you did!’, Madlen insisted with her pure poison in her tongue, trying to gather their embroidery hoops and cloths and fabrics, hopelessly mixing them and dropping them in her infuriated state as she sought to prevent her younger sister from re-entering the royal chambers.

‘Oh, do tell me, Miss-manners-maketh-woman, what did I do wrong this time?’

Lothíriel listened to the sisters bicker on and on, and even after both had left the royal chamber and the door had been shut fast, she heard their clamouring, all along the halls of Meduseld. But even though she smiled at the amusement it brought her, she could not but chide herself inwardly for committing this blunder, for letting her guard down so senselessly. True, Meduseld would be considerate crude and blunt in comparison to the courts of the South, lacking the distinct finesse of the nuanced game of intrigue, but it still adhered to the same standards of courteous conduct, unspoken rules that needed to be followed word by word, images that had to be upheld, if only for the image’s sake, with masks that became faces and faces that became masks. And as the queen looked down upon the fabric between her fingers, blue that tried to turn to green and got caught in-between, she wondered then whether she would hide behind her mask or show her face?

* * *

‘Lothíriel, are you sure this is absolutely necessary? Because I’m sure I look as ridiculous as I feel.’

The queen smiled more to herself than to the outside world as she watched her sister-in-law walk down the hall of Meduseld with long, striding steps, the book on top of her head that she was supposed to balance with a mixture of grace and poise swaying dangerously like a ship caught between the winds and the waves. But, truth be told, the shieldmaiden was right, she did look rather ridiculous, though whether it was the exercise in and of itself that was the cause of that, or whether her new sister’s lack of motivation played into it, she could not rightly say.

‘Éowyn, you don’t look ridiculous at all.’, Lothíriel spoke then, lying with the skills of a snake slithering and coiling through the hot, rough sands of the deserts of the _Far Harad_ , as the book crashed to the floors once more, leaving the shieldmaiden to growl in annoyance and anger, cursing under her breath, luckily so quietly that Lothíriel could pretend not to hear it, and instead moved to pick up the light volume of Southern poems, one of the few dear possessions she had brought from her home by the sea, ‘All you need is a little practise.’

‘You do it then, if it’s so easy.’, the shieldmaiden spoke then between grinding teeth, the haughty sneer reminding Lothíriel that despite her high standards of honour and integrity, Éowyn was still a woman and was still human, and to be reminded that there were things she could not do, well, it infuriated her like everybody else. With a knowing smile, the queen put the little volume on top of her own head and proceeded to slowly walk the aisle of the hall of Meduseld up and down, and although her whole body swayed back and forth in rhythm with her strides, the book stayed completely still and calm.

‘There, easy.’, Lothíriel concluded with a sweet smile that was a little too smug for her own good, but then again, in this new country of hers she so seldom was so completely in her element that she had to savour every little bit of moment when she at last did. So, for now, she forwent all ladylike caution and basked in her own unrivalled skills, even if that made her seem a little too haughty and vain. Taking the book down from her head she passed it from hand to hand, playing around with it absent-mindedly, as Éowyn snorted, surprised and more than a little amused by the cocky behaviour her usually so composed sister-in-law displayed here.

‘It looks so easy when you do it.’, Éowyn countered, arms folded in front of her chest in a gesture of defiance, although in the same breath admitting (albeit unwillingly) that the strict and formal etiquette of the South, with their adherence to grace and poise rather than pride and honour, proved to be a rather hard subject for her to adept to. The North had always put weight on different manners of social conduct, favouring the noble and simple elegance of truth and integrity over charms and propriety. Here, in the Mark, she had been considered a lady; perhaps not for her curtseys or social graces, but for her noble bearing, her proud love for her country and their ways, her steadfast convictions. But none of that would do her much good in the South, the shieldmaiden mused bitterly, and this had been a realisation that had been dawning on her more and more ever since her sister-in-law had offered to give her another crash course in ‘Southern manners’, as she had put it.

After her first few failed lessons (an embroidery session a week ago came to her mind), the shieldmaiden undoubtedly had needed more than a bit of persuasion, and even now, that charmingly Southern persuasion of her sweet sister-in-law slowly but surely was wearing off once again. But for better or worse, Éowyn had challenged herself to master the manners of the South, and if nothing else would do it, the bait of the challenge had always been enough to keep her hooked.

‘Well, it is easy, if you know how to do it.’, Lothíriel insisted, all of her smug smirking gone, instead she wore this intense expression again, somewhere between pride, trust and support, as though the queen had never doubted for a second that even an unladylike woman like her sister-in-law could master the feminine wiles of the South, as though the queen truly believed in this companionship of women she had daydreamed about to her earlier. Walking up to her new sister, Lothíriel put the little book on top the shieldmaiden’s head, a warm little smile decorating her lips, befitting a mother watching with pride the first steps of her daughter, ‘Remember, it’s not about strength or purpose, it’s about grace – you’re not supposed to be walking in forceful strides down this aisle, you’re supposed to be floating along it with the purpose of a feather carried by the wind.’

‘ _A feather carried by the wind_ does not have any purpose, Lothíriel.’

‘As far as we know.’, the queen countered quietly, making light of her new sister’s protests while she slowly rounded her to stand behind her, and the shieldmaiden rolled her eyes and shook her head at the lady’s jab, but that was all she could do, and Éowyn uttered a defeated sigh, knowing full well that all her evasive tricks would not spare her from having to attempt this all over again, and thus she lifted her head in a sign of determination. Behind her she could feel her sister-in-law take her wrists and help her spread out her arms, to further help her keep her balance, her summer lips blowing soft sea air against her neck as she spoke with the sultry tone of sultry southern days.

‘Imagine yourself on top of a horse, feel its movement, adapt to it, move _with_ it, not _against_ it – allow its movement to pull you along, surrender to it.’, Éowyn closed her eyes, breathing in, breathing out, as shivers prickled her skin, images flashing before her eyes, and as her sister-in-law slowly, softly let go of her wrists, the shieldmaiden felt the absence of it like rocks weighing her down, but as the lady behind her spoke once more, the warm voice lifted her up to unknown heights, and she felt light and heady, ‘Now walk.’

Lothíriel smiled at the comparison; for herself she had always thought of the waves of her beloved sea carrying herself back and forth, tide in, tide out, but with her sister-in-law allegories closer to home had to be picked, and as she saw the shieldmaiden slowly but surely allow the imagery to take hold and manifest in changes in her style of walking she knew she had succeeded. Whoever said that a woman from the North knew not how to be a lady from the South clearly had underestimated the clever wiles of a clever teacher.

‘Lovely!’, Lothíriel called out, half-laughing, half-smiling, clapping cheerfully and encouragingly, as the shieldmaiden rounded the hearth and slowly and elegantly made her way back to her, head held high, back straight, steps seemingly floating upon air – a picture of ladylike serenity. When Éowyn stopped in front her, however, she simply took the book from her head and bowed – not a lady’s curtsey, mind you, but a noble man’s bow: bent posture, drawn-back leg, outstretched arm and all. The queen squealed in delight and clapped once more, delighted in her amusement, but curious in her apprehension.

‘Well, I would say, we have our next lesson cut out for us.’

‘Oh, really?!’, Éowyn smirked sceptically as she straightened again, her eyebrows raised in question, and there was just an expression in her gaze that screamed challenge – well, two could play this game, ‘First, you criticize my gait – ’

‘I wasn’t criticizing, I was merely advising.’

‘Is that what you Southern ladies call a euphemism?’, the shieldmaiden laughed strategically, and Lothíriel felt thrilled by that laughter, a sound low and sultry, rich with a lust for life that was infectious, seductive even, and she could easily see now why her cousin Faramir was so infatuated by this woman from the North, ‘You said – _and I quote_ – my way of walking resembled the elegance of a horse trotting across the Northern plain.’

‘I thought you Rohirrim worship horses.’

‘And now, she’s evading. Is that what you Southern ladies call a conversation?’, Éowyn smiled, shaking her head, gazing at her sister-in-law with a mixture of respect and annoyance before putting the book of Southern poems on a nearby table. Turning around she saw her new sister looking at her; her expression calm, though the smile of her lips was a little too challenging to be considerate proper, but by the way she stood straight and poised, hands neatly fold in front of her she seemed all the perfect lady she wished to appear as. It would be infuriating, really, if it weren’t so bloody entertaining.

‘You know I still don’t quite understand why I have to re-learn how to walk and talk – and apparently how to _curtsey_ – when I know how to do all of these things. I am a lady, just like you. I mean, well, I _can_ be, if I _want_ to – but I am also a shieldmaiden. I’m not going to hide that I’m a strong, independent woman who can think and fight for herself.’

Lothíriel smiled, nodding slowly, but as she mused about her new sister’s idea of a strong woman, she could not but entertain bitter thoughts and bitter offences, since for the shieldmaiden only the warrior woman seemed an example of strength, but the queen knew that there were many different forms of strength among women, just as it was for men. In fact, in her life she had known very few women not to possess some strength, sometimes in spite of and sometimes even because of their position as women. And Lothíriel remembered her aunt Ivriniel, too, who had been married no less than three times but despite no child ever being born and none of her husbands living too long, she had somehow managed to outsmart the smartest laws of inheritance in the South. Apart from her, it had been unheard of that any woman would inherit title, lands and wealth of all of their late husbands, when usually it all went to the family, or to the children, or back to the crown.

‘Yes, I’m a strong, independent woman, and I would like for my manners to reflect that.’, Éowyn repeated once more with emphasis, concluding a flaming speech in which she had detailed all the many facets of her strength superior to other women, and very effectively pulling Lothíriel out of her own thoughts. The queen looked at her sister-in-law with watchful eyes, appraising her defensive posture, the way she stood there: arms akimbo, stance widened, chin lifted so high she wondered whether the White Lady of Rohan could still see beyond the tip of her own nose any more.

‘You’re a shieldmaiden, I get it.’, Lothíriel said poignantly, sighing heavily, and her hands seemingly folded themselves together neatly before her as she instinctively fell into a teaching position, ‘You know how to fight, you know how to defend and how to attack, you know how to best any man in combat – _I get it_.’, and here she paused to breathe in deeply, to let those spoken words echo in their minds, to remind them so well of what it was that this shieldmaiden was truly capable of, to put even more emphasis on these words still to come, to point out so clearly what it was that this shieldmaiden was incapable of, ‘But could you also best any woman in a fight?’

At her words, Éowyn frowned, her eyes squinted, and gave all the visible signals of confusion. Perhaps, the shieldmaiden had simply been thrown by her question, or perhaps, she was truly confused by what the queen asked – but all the same, Lothíriel could barely hide that smug smile she always felt bubbling beneath the surface when she had at last managed to rattle her usually so sure and unshaken sister-in-law.

Content with her momentary victory, the queen continued, ‘I don’t mean a fight of swords and shields and spears – I know no woman could hold her ground against you in such a fight. I mean a battle of words and wits and manners, a battle that is not decided by strength but by grace and wiles.’, with another pause, Lothíriel sought to give her next words the necessary weight she needed to make her new sister understand her point of view, ‘You’re the strongest person I know, Éowyn – I did not say strongest woman, mind you, I said the strongest person. And yet … and yet, you’re not even half the woman compared to the ladies I used to know. You’re not even half as powerful as those ladies you so look down upon.’

Lothíriel paused again, gathering her thoughts, but as she became aware of the shieldmaiden’s sceptical, annoyed expression, she realised her new sister was not quite receiving the message as she had intended to, and quickly she jumped in before the ship – as the saying went – sailed, wrecked and sank to the bottom of the ocean, ‘I’m not saying these things to offend you – ’

‘Oh, good to know.’

‘ – I’m saying these things to spare you any harm or humiliation.’, the queen continued, respectfully ignoring the shieldmaiden’s quietly cynical commentary as she began to lay out the realities of the South compared to its perceived or mediated image, ‘Listen, Éowyn, I know you don’t want to learn these things or do these things my way – I get it. But when you get to the South, untrained, unprepared, let me walk you through how things will proceed from here.’, Lothíriel took a deep breath, as she distilled a very particular portrait of her Southern home and its peculiarities in her mind, ready now to showcase its proper uniqueness, ‘When you get to the South, being exactly what you appear to be, you know what people are going to think?’

‘I don’t care what people think of me.’

‘I know, that’s what you keep saying, and that’s exactly your problem. But let’s pretend for a moment I don’t believe that delusion of yours, shall we?’, Lothíriel countered quickly, inexplicably infuriated by her sister-in-law’s stubborn stance, her wilful deception of her own self, all in the name of adhering to that ideal of strength she had created in her mind. The queen wondered where her own frustration stemmed from exactly – did she only feel offended by the shieldmaiden’s low opinion of ladies because she herself was a lady, or was it perhaps something deeper, something far more complicated; a look into a mirror, perhaps, that was so old she barely recognised her younger self?

Shaking her head to rid herself of these thoughts, Lothíriel tried to concentrate on the moment, tried to focus on the task ahead, tried to shut out all doubts she might have about the tactics she was using; after all, was it not said that you had to fight fire with fire, and that you had to be cruel to be kind?

‘People will think there goes a wild shieldmaiden of the North, a specimen too blunt for anything other than honesty, whose ears are too deaf for the wagging of tongues, and whose mind is too dull for the poison of snakes. They will think you the big fat uncivilised rat among the sly hungry cats, a tasty morsel just ripe for the taking.’

‘You know, Lothíriel, you make it sound like a war is going on down there.’, Éowyn threw in, laughing as she spoke, laughing at the ridiculousness of it all, laughing – like all warriors – at the danger she wanted to meet head-on (with an insane grin and cocky attitude for good measure), because she had never learned how to face danger any other way, because fear seemed humiliating to her quest for honour and renown, ignoring that fear was more natural than all that bravery, ‘And you make it sound like I’m too stupid to know when I’m being lied to or taken advantage of – you forget, as we Northerners do not lie we are not easily deceived.’

The queen rolled her eyes at that statement, sighing in frustration as she shook her head. Yes, how often had she heard it! This stupidly simple, arrogantly naive notion of a fool’s logic! Those who do not lie are not easily deceived; those who do not fight are never injured; those who do not believe in love are not in danger of falling in love – yes, a simple man’s way of creating a simple world out of a chaotic, treacherous, unreasonable universe. Éowyn, however, seemed not to share her apprehension, or perhaps she simply she didn’t want to, and instead merely emphasised the same point she had made before, ‘In any case, it’s not a delusion – I truly do not care what other people think of me. And anyway, words are just words.’

At that, Lothíriel smiled; not a sweet smile of a girl splashing waves, nor a warm smile of a kind soul, but a saccharine smile so sweet it tasted bitter, like poison masked by honey, the scent of a rose garden filled with thorns – it was the smile of a woman who had learned wise truths through bitter hardships among the snake pits of the South. And it was with such a smile that the queen regarded her new sister then, rounding her like a hawk circling its prey, and to Éowyn’s credit, she sensed the naivety of her own comment, even though she was too proud yet to admit it, even to herself, ‘Oh my sweet shieldmaiden, and exactly therein lies your mistake, and I fear you will find out quickly enough what devastating effect words can truly have.’

Lothíriel smiled, more to herself than to her sister-in-law, taking a deep breath as she prepared to sew the seeds in the shieldmaiden’s character that would hopefully blossom into roses hiding sharp thorns, remembering well her aunt Ivriniel telling her the very same story after she had come to live with her after her mother’s tragic death, beginning her own very peculiar societal education. No, even the swan princess of the sea had not been born with her shield of etiquette, her sword of sharp tongue or her spear of intrigue, but she had learned, by _Ulmo_ , under the guiding hand of her aunt she had learned much and more.

‘I don’t presume you have ever heard of the tragic tale of the House of _Niëreth_? The House of _Niëreth_ was a noble blood line from which many a mighty knight and fair lady had sprung, all with the silver hair and silver eyes of their ancestors, almost suspiciously so – they were so noble and so powerful that it incited greed in the hearts of lesser men … and women. And soon enough rumours were spread and secret nasty words were spoken, and folk began to question their silver hair and silver eyes. You must understand, most people don’t understand that strong blood traits can reproduce across many generations, even without watering down, and so people thought that there was only one explanation for their silver hair and silver eyes. Despite the lack of evidence, people believed what they wanted to believe – and instead of mighty knights and fair ladies they saw unnatural creatures with unnatural tastes, and soon enough measures were taken. Legends don’t speak of the beginnings of their downfall, they only speak of their violent and tragic end. It was words that put nooses around their necks, words that put pitchforks into peasant hands, words that ignited pyres, words that took their honour and wealth and lives. It wasn’t actions that incited that, it were words.’

When Lothíriel had ended her chilling tale of fallen beauties and fallen gentlemen, she looked up, expecting to have to meet the defiant gaze and defiant speech of her sister-in-law, but instead, the shieldmaiden seemed to have been rendered virtually speechless – mouth hanging open in shock, eyes blinking rapidly, forehead etched in frowns – and the queen fought hard to suppress a smile. The thought that a simple moral story could stun a grown woman – a woman who had faced darkness in battle, who had desired death over pity and a life without purpose – into silence, well, it did bring Lothíriel some amusement, but the queen knew that everyone reacted differently to learning that their narrow outlook on life was turned upside down. Most people reacted with despair, depression even, fear gnawing away at all their resistance and opening them up to change, but some people reacted exactly to the contrary, they reacted with anger, hot wrath masked by haughty pride hiding the confusion beneath – and Lothíriel knew that Éowyn shieldmaiden was not most people, and that the fighting spirit would not even leave her body on her dying day.

‘Well, that’s … terrible.’, the shieldmaiden finally brought herself to say, and the disgust in her voice was more than palpable, and although the queen was pleasantly surprised to find her sister-in-law so openly moved by the moral story, she doubted not that it stemmed rather from her ingrained contempt for backstabbing and intrigue rather than out of awe and even fear for the power of even the most quietly whispered word. But, Lothíriel thought with a little smile, in every beginning there was a seed buried deep within the ground, and no matter how long it would take for it to grow into a flower with nice petals, sweet fragrance and sharp thorns, the seed was sown nonetheless.

‘It’s an unkind thing to be sure, but you and I both know, the world isn’t kind.’, Lothíriel agreed then, and although she spoke with the authority of a queen, it was the voice of a lady that uttered it, ‘The moral of this story is that if you openly show your greatest strengths, they’ll be turned into your greatest weaknesses.’

‘What’s your greatest strength, I wonder, sweet Lothíriel?’, the shieldmaiden asked pointedly, but the queen only smiled, and it was the smile of a cat drowsing in the afternoon sun, purring satisfied, eyes squinted mysteriously, full of secrets, and it was clear that she would not divulge even a single one of them, and as the queen only winked at her, her smile as mischievous as before, Éowyn sighed heavily and spoke once more, the last gasp of her defiance.

‘OK, so you’re saying I should start caring about other people’s opinions of me, imagine their whimsical views and intrigue, because you people down in the South have nothing better to do with your boredom other than wagging your tongues in gossip in the hopes of destroying each other’s reputation and lives?’

The queen smiled; so there it was: the last prancing of the wild horse before taming, the final struggle of the hawk before accepting the feeding. Lothíriel could have taken offence at her sister-in-law’s insulting words, but she did not, because in a way, she was not wrong – the feeling of power could propel people to do terrible things to each other, and the lack of power could prove people to be even more cruel and vile, after all, a snake could bite just as easily out of hunger or out of fear, and so the queen only smiled as she commented, ‘Well, what else are we to do in the absence of killing each other?’, and as she laughed a laugh that was no laughter at all, she emphasised once more, ‘Words, after all, are never just words.’

Éowyn slowly nodded at that, her lips thinning into a sarcastic smile before uttering a sigh of magnificent proportion, and Lothíriel could sense that, step by step, the defiance was making way to compliance. But instead of pushing on and on, pushing her over that invisible line of acceptance, pushing on like any warrior would, she simply waited – she had lured and baited her enough to know that she had already caught the shieldmaiden in her net, and even if she might wriggle like a feisty trout, she was already hers, hook, line and sinker, and all she had to do now was wait.

‘So, it’s not about strength, it’s about grace?’, the shieldmaiden said then at last, and the queen simply smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUN FACT #1: I have a soft spot for fairy tales, even the creepy, sexist ones - so, tell me, which fairy tale was I playing at here? And which one is your favourite or was?
> 
> FUN FACT #2: You might wanna remember Aunt Ivriniel, I'll be inserting covert intel about her here and there until you can puzzle out the whole picture ...
> 
> FUN FACT #3: Hi, I'm a feminist, so trust me to bitch about the perception and representation of women. In stories. Repeatedly. Occasionally. You never know ... ;)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello guys, gals and non-binary pals!
> 
> I'm back!
> 
> Unfortunately, I'll have to barge in with some bad news - all hell is currently breaking loose at my school and I'm working my ass off at the moment to cover for some collegues that are absent, so I'm not sure I'll be able to hit that friday-deadline for the next chapter. I'll try, of course, but it might be that I won't make it in time.
> 
> Just don't be too disappointed, please? Here have this chapter at least!
> 
> Enjoy and spread a little love by leaving a comment!

**8\. Nightmares and Dreamcatchers**

At first there were only those sounds to keep her company, to cut through the silence, and yet it was not a shrill sound; it was dull and hollow and muffled, all the edges washed off and muddled down into something soft, and yet it was not a pleasant sound, for it was dissonant and heavy, like a little pebble under your soles cutting into the flesh despite its seemingly rounded shape. It was the sound of laughter, loud and howling and off-key, infused with too much alcohol and too little heart, and she knew it well, for she had heard it before, or at least her mind had imagined it before, many, many times before in fact.

The laughter seemed to be coming from somewhere far off, as though trying to pierce through a heavy cloud of fog and all the ringing sharpness of its sound was blunted by it, leaving the sound to be nothing but a distorted reminder of what it truly was. There was menace behind it, behind that laugh; there was cruelty behind it, and there was pleasure, but not one made of sweetness or joy or ease but one made of pain – yes, a pleasure made of pain, of watching pain, of inflicting it, feeling it, tasting it …

Lothíriel shivered in the king-size bed, goosebumps pricking her skin and yet fine drops of sweat pearled on her forehead etched in frowns; she whimpered as she twitched again, as though, in her sleep, in her dreams, she tried to look away but found that she could not. Whatever it was that she saw in her mind’s eye, it would not let her go, it hadn’t let go of her in the past, and it wouldn’t do so now either, as it never truly would. Her hands grasped the sheets all around her again, pulling at the cloth, nails sinking in deep as she whimpered again, fighting in vain against the undertow of her dreaming pulling her down with it once more, down into the deep.

Sounds became vibrations, tuning in on a key of familiar terror, making her blood sing with dread, as the whole of her body tensed in fearful anticipation of what was surely to follow. Vibrations turned to flashes, visions jumping before her eyes, eyes squeezed shut in a last pitiful attempt to hide from the images she wished not to see, but it was all in vain, for she had already seen those images many times before, or at least, her mind had conjured up those images many times before. Perhaps, if she had actually seen these things, she might have learned to forget them, but the pictures your mind created, you could never unsee.

Out of flashes colours sprang, that formed into shapes, and first it was blurry, muddled, hard to see but soon enough she recognised what images her mind came up with. Smiles came into focus, but not the smiles of jolly boys and sweet kindness; it were smiles made of rows and rows of perfectly white sharpened teeth, flashed with a cruel malice that rejoiced in the terror it elicited from others. It were the smiles of men with wicked intentions, and as so often, when she saw those smiles, she was reminded of those exotic beasts from exotic lands that she had seen as a child as part of a travelling exhibition – beasts with golden furs and reflecting eyes and jaws full of rows of perfectly white, perfectly sharp and perfectly deadly teeth. She remembered thinking, as a child, that she had never before seen a more menacing smile and never would again – but she had been wrong, because as the images of these men with their perfect smiles stared back at her, with teeth as glistening and sharp and deadly as any dagger, she knew that man was the greatest beast of all …

Lothíriel whimpered, sucking in desperate gulps of air through clenched teeth, a scream stuck in her throat, a scream heard only in her head, a scream amidst a thousand screams. With her head whipping from side to side she tried to shield herself from the sounds and images her mind forced her to confront. _Menacing laughter howling from alcohol-infused grins._ Her breathing became erratic. _Voices that pleaded for mercy but would find none._ Her legs started to tread and kick the covers from her. _Hands that gripped like a knife, gripping the flesh of its victim._ Tears watered her cheeks as silent witnesses to her nightmares. _Eyes staring back at her, eyes that did not see, that would never see again …_

With a drawn-out sob, somewhere between pain and panic, Lothíriel rolled to the side, pulling up her legs, tightening into a ball of human flesh, making herself small. But no matter how small she made herself, no matter how hard she fought to hide, from her mind and fears she could never hide. Hissing in disgust and fear, she started to flinch. She knew what would follow, and she didn’t want to see.

Smiles turned to flames, fog became smoke, and the stench of it, burned into her memory, made her gag, but even that wouldn’t save her. The heat of the fire seemed all around her and though her whole body jerked back, she could not escape the inferno, because the flames blazed only in her mind, and from your own mind you could not run.

The sounds were the first thing that hit her; the wild neighing of a desperate horse, hooves scraping aimlessly across the stone floor, creating the backdrop of thunderous rain, drumming loudly inside her dream. But the sounds were only the beginning, and she knew what was to follow. And yet even if she wanted to fight against turning around, she knew she would not have been able to, because it had all happened before, and she could change the past as little as she could change her nightmares or the eternal tides of the sea.

As she turned around at last, the sobs she had fought to keep in finally broke loose, and she was now no longer only crying in her dreams but in the real world, too, as her hands gripped the cushion beneath her, nails tearing at the fabric. But all her wailing, all her tears and all her resistance wouldn’t save her now; the time had come, and it was too late, all too late.

Before her a white stallion stood, tall and gleaming and proud, with a mane black as the night and hooves shining like silver in the moonlight, but the beauty was broken and the fair animal had turned into a foul beast. Fire blazed out of its nostrils, quenched only by the drops of blood it spat; the black mane sizzled with bright flames, whipping monstrously in the heat and smoke all around her; and its eyes smouldered with embers of blood and death and fire and foreboding.

_She didn’t run. She wouldn’t have been able to. She had not been able to._

With a scream stuck in her throat Lothíriel sat up, awake in a flash.

With eyes wide in terror – eyes that did not see anything yet beyond the horrors in her dreams – and fingers clutching the sheets to her breast so tightly her knuckles appeared like frozen spikes, she gasped for air. Trembling, she let out a silent sob, and with it the silent tears flowed, and it the night, in the dark, she at last allowed herself to break down, if only for a moment. There was something so deeply cathartic about crying, about allowing yourself to be weak; like crying out in pain when you’re hurt – it wouldn’t make the pain go away, but it felt better, even if it still didn’t feel good.

Lothíriel didn’t know how long she wept or how much time passed till she could breathe again, but after some time the tears on her cheeks had dried and she was calm again, or if not calm, then at least composed enough to push the fears back behind that mask of control. Breathing deep, she could feel the weariness already tugging at her consciousness again, and she so wished to simply give in. She was tired, so unbearably tired – tired of projecting that image of regal poise, tired of being on her guard all the time, tired of never feeling safe – not even in her dreams – so tired of being afraid. She was exhausted and weary, like a swimmer heading towards a shore ever out of reach, and the turmoil of the tides and wrath of the waves washed away more and more of her strength, of _herself_ , until she was little more than a polished stone at the bottom of the sea.

She was so weary of pretending to be strong.

A sudden sound on her left pulled her out of her depressing thoughts then and for a frightful second she actually feared that her nightly terrors had come to life again, but no, there was something else – and as her eyes adjusted to the faint light of the moon that fell through the window into the bedroom, she understood what it was. Perhaps it was her own weariness that had prevented her from feeling the slight tremors vibrating through the bed, perhaps it was the panicked beating of her own heart that had kept her from hearing the frantic breathing next to her, perhaps it even were the very horrors in her own mind that had kept her from sensing the horrors in others.

Next to her in the great king-size bed, thrashing about like a drowning man, her husband lay, and with his forehead wrinkled in fear, his teeth gritted together and the sweat upon his brow, it was not hard to say what was ailing him.

_He was having a nightmare._

For a moment she was almost frozen, as if in shock; and yet it was not shock, but rather shame and embarrassment. She felt mortified for witnessing this, because not only did it make her uncomfortable, her with her Southern upbringing and their discomfort with displaying feelings deemed undesirable, but she also doubted that her lord and husband would want her to be a witness to this intimate moment of his weakness. And so, though she didn’t feel particularly good about it, she actually considered to just ignore it and to try and go back to sleep – after all, that’s how she’d been raised and socialised, and surely that’s what her husband would appreciate most in his manly pride. But unfortunately she found that she could not.

She simply could not bring herself to just pretend that this wasn’t happening or that it would solve anything of the real problem that lay underneath it. Of course, this went against everything she had been taught, from respectful distance to societal taboos to royal conduct, and naturally, it shattered all the boundaries of this political union that they had – because this would be too raw, too intense and too intimate for two people only connected by politics – and yet she found that she could not simply leave another tormented soul to wrestle with his own demons alone in his sleep. And so she reached out at last.

‘My lord.’, she tried, cautiously, keeping her voice low so as not to spook him, addressing him again and again, louder and louder each time, but still she didn’t dare inch closer to him nor did she dare touch him for fear of being hit by one of his fists, because by now the thrashing had increased and he had started to kick and punch the air, mumbling curses and pleas to the figments of his dream imagination.

‘My lord.’, she tried again, even louder this time and now she started to gently shake him, but even though his head bobbed from side to side and his face twisted, he still didn’t wake up, and for a moment she feared she would actually have to leave their bedchamber to alert his sister Éowyn and to enlist the help of the shieldmaiden to wake him from his nightmares. But then she took heart and tried it once more but this time she leaned down to him, close enough to whisper into his ear, and, smoothing out the frowns of panic on his forehead, she spoke one last time, breathing the word almost, ‘Éomer … ’

The king awoke with a scream that echoed in the bedchamber and pierced her very marrow and bone, and she didn’t know what had got through to him in the end – her touch or his name whispered on her tongue? But Lothíriel had little time to contemplate the answers to that question, because while the king might have woken from his nightmare, the terrors of his dreaming seemed to cling to him still.

He looked about as though trying to get his bearings, as though not fully recognising where he was, and he seemed to grow increasingly panicked at the things he might still be seeing. And so it should not have surprised her that, when she tried to put her hand on his shoulder to anchor him back in the here and now, he would instead jerk away from her touch in an almost violent motion – but it did catch her by surprise. As the king jumped up in his frantic momentum, he shoved her away from him with such force that it almost had her do a full somersault, and only once she had regained her proper visual perception of what was up and down did she notice the bizarre scene that was unfolding before her.

Standing in the middle of the bedchamber, somewhere between hearth and bed, the king of the Riddermark stood, and in the silver moonlight, looking deathly pale, clad in nothing but his breeches, he almost looked more like a young and frightened boy – were it not for the sharp and long sword in his hand. It was a terrifying image, seeing him standing there and Lothíriel considered for a panicked moment to cry out for help, but that would mean that not only his sister but servants and guards would come running, and then the whole world would be witness to the greatest shame of this young king. _No_ , she thought bitterly, foolishly, bravely, _no, there was no one she could call – she was his queen and it was upon her to rein in her king_.

Climbing gingerly out of the king-size bed, she tried to make as little sound as possible, so as not to spook him and have him run her through with his sword by accident. Approaching him step by step, cautious to always keep the end of the bed between herself and the king, she stopped short of leaving the bed, her _shield_ , behind. But when she had reached the end of the bed at last, she paused, for a moment unsure of how to proceed. Watching him move his head frantically when he believed to hear a sound that was only in his mind, all the while slashing that sharp sword against whatever foe he imagined himself to be fighting – well, she couldn’t pretend that it didn’t frighten her. She knew quite well what nightmares could do to a man traumatised by war.

After the war, and the victory, and the celebrations, when she had resumed her work in the Houses of Healing, if only for a short while, before her lord father had commanded her to return home, she had seen her fair share of men with wounded souls. Screams and tossing throughout the night, young men in the prime of their life desperately trying to use hands and feet that were no longer there, brave men that wetted the bed like babes still at their mothers’ breast, soldiers that, in their mind, still fought their enemies at every waking moment, and even non-waking moments. She had seen a man strangled by a life-long friend because tricks of the mind had painted him as the enemy; and another time, a knight had hacked a healer’s hand clean off because he believed she was holding a blade – it was a butter knife – and it was safe to say that the afternoon tea had been quite ruined by the bloodbath. So, in that moment, it was more than just respect and decorum that compelled her to keep her distance and to remain wary of his every movement.

And yet, all her manners, all her fears and all her unwillingness could not compete with the sheer feeling of compassion that gripped her heart as she watched that mighty warrior reduced to a frightened boy trying to ward off memories of evil with a simple sword – granted, a very sharp and very long sword, but even that was no match for the sneaky, slithering might of nightmares. She was sure if she were in his place she would want someone to pull her out of her bad dreams and nightly terrors, back into the here and now, back into reality, even if that reality held little comfort either. True, the cruelty of bright shadows and wicked grins was only a pale memory in the waking hours that held no threat, but only because that precise threat had already come true in the hours of war. But, she mused, better the bitter burden of a total awareness of painful memories than the horrifying images of the restless mind at night.

And so she tried to make a sound only as quietly as possible, so as not to spook him too much; first, she cleared her throat, and when that didn’t seem enough, she spoke his name again – his name, not his title – and that did the trick, though the result was not nearly as peaceful or smooth as she would have liked. Whipping around at the sound of her voice, the king slashed the sword in the direction of her voice, very nearly taking her head off, and she only avoided the sharp kiss of the blade by ducking behind the bedpost in time. But she had little time to count herself blessed to be still among the living, because as soon as she dared to peak out from behind the bedpost and her lord and king saw her, he started to lunge at – not with a blade this time, but with words, and not quiet, whispered ones either: he was shouting.

‘What devilry is this?! How come you here?’

Lothíriel blinked rapidly, taken aback by the sudden loudness of his voice set against the stark contrasting silence of the night from before, just as she was stunned by the unusual harshness of his voice but she retained enough poise to not show her very obvious shock. She wondered for a brief moment who he thought she was, or who he thought he was talking to and if he really meant her as he spoke but then she shook off those thoughts – they were questions for another time.

‘Éo – my lord, you had a nightmare.’

At that clarification his reaction was as sudden as it was expected. Realising her words, processing their meaning, his eyes first squinted in confusion, then widened in shock and then squeezed shut in an almost violently physical reaction of shame. As he tried to wrench his hands to his head to try and bury his face in them, he became aware of the sword, and as he let it slip from his grip with a motion made of disgust as much as of horror it came crashing down upon the stony floor with a clanging sound, and that at last made her flinch. Of course, she tried to hide it, tried to cover her slip, but he saw it all the same, he was a king.

‘I’m not going to hurt you, Lothíriel.’

‘Never thought you would.’

And there it was. A lie; small and sweet and innocent but a lie nonetheless, and they both knew it, and a least one heart was breaking because of it.

Of course, she knew he had only meant to reassure her, knowing full well that he would never consciously, intentionally harm her in any way. But she also knew him to be a warrior through and through, capable of deeds of great violence, and she had already seen bits and pieces of that violence flash and flare up in between the control and self-discipline with which he sought to master that temper. And he was a man wounded by war, in more that just one way, and who knew what things he could be capable of – unconsciously, unintentionally? Violence was no less violent, she knew, even if no violent thoughts set it in motion.

Of course, he knew she had only meant to reassure him, to shield him from the repercussions of his own behaviour, to keep him from taking the blame for things – unfortunately – far beyond his control, to keep him from pouring even more disgust upon himself. It would have worked, if she had only truly meant what she had said, but a lie was a lie, no matter the intention; and perhaps it was even the good intention behind it that made the blow of the lie even harder to bear. To have her lie about her fear, to deny the panic that had so very obviously gripped the whole of her, if only for a moment – it was hard enough to see her scared of him, but even harder to realise that she was even more afraid to show her fear to him, wary of what his reaction would be. Not for the first time did he wonder what had happened to her that had made her so fearful of him and of men in general, and the very thought it, and the kind, albeit misguided, attempt at hiding her fears from him, made his heart warm and break at the same time, and his eyes softened.

In that moment there were a thousand words and one he wanted to say and yet none of them actually made it past his lips. As he watched her lower her eyes in glum demureness, as he watched her approach him with cautious steps, as he watched her gingerly pick up the sword to put it away safely – far away from unsteady hands and unsteady minds – he felt his heart ache with a strange emotion, somewhere between pain and affection. And as he looked at her then he thought that he had never before seen anything so sad or so beautiful in all his life.

A flash of light pulled him out of his sombre thoughts and as he looked up, blinking, he realised it must have been the reflection of the moonlight bouncing off the sword in her hand, and as he saw her standing there, so small and so alone, blade in hand, the moon mirrored a white cut across her delicate neck and it filled him with a dreadful realisation. _He could have hurt her –_ Béma! _– he could have killed her!_ That thought made him shiver, with shame and fear and with a passionate impulse to protect her, even if he had no idea how or from what.

‘I’m sorry you had to see that – but I’m guessing it’s not the first time you’ve seen me having a nightmare.’, he started, meaning to apologise for his frightful behaviour but once he had started talking, there was no stopping the words, and he had never been good with words, and so it wasn’t that surprising that even with only a handful of words he already managed to put his foot in his mouth again, ‘But – running the risk of sounding rude – if I’m the one with the nightmares here, why are you up at this hour, my lady?’

Of course, it was a foolish thing to ask, and he doubted not that she must think him foolish in that moment – after all, what woman could sleep peacefully next to a man thrashing about like a crazed stallion in one moment and very nearly butchering her with a broadsword in the next? But still, somehow he could not quite shake the feeling that it was more than that and that her true reason for being awake at this hour of night had less to do with his fears than with hers. At his questioning she had stilled in her movements for a moment, and he could almost see her mind overheating with thoughts, debating whether to open up or crawl back into that tiny shell she still clung to. But as she put away the sword and turned back to him, looking up with those wary, pleading eyes, he got his answer at last, ‘You’re not the only one with nightmares.’

The silence that followed was deafening, and even if he had wanted to fill it with words and meaning, he would have found himself unable to do so, and so, the silence stretched on. Of course, there was an understanding between them at least, even if it was one only found in silence – in the night, in the dark, hidden from the eyes of the world, two lost souls wounded by the past may connect and perhaps even find comfort in knowing that they were not alone in their suffering. In that moment he wished for nothing more than to be able to take her hand, to take her into his arms, to find solace in her embrace and to offer the same in return, and yet he could not bring himself to do so. He had lived with his own demons for far too long to allow them to taint another by sharing them, and as it seemed she had enough shadows of her own to fight, so how could he bear to burden her already burdened soul with his own darkness? No, he thought bitterly, resigned to cling to the hollow code of strength, he would be man enough to battle his own demons (and perhaps hers as well, if she would let him?) – there was simply no need to burden her with this.

His queen, however, seemed to disagree.

A touch pulled him out of his brooding thoughts and as he looked down he was met with the deep, dark eyes of his wife, standing right before him, her hand holding on to his, and he could not remember when she had approached him, but there she was. Her hand was cold but he held on to it all the same, his fingers greedily intertwining with hers, soaking up what little warmth her touch could offer – and he so wished he could see her face but as her back was against the window and the moon, her face was in the shadows and hidden from his view. He wondered what expression her face would show if he could see it now but by the look in her eyes he could tell that this was as new to her as it was to him. This closeness, the way they stood, the way their hands held on to each other, the way she held his gaze – all of it was wholly new and it felt … _intimate_.

A tingling sensation slithered up his spine and he felt himself holding his breath as his eyes looked down and for the briefest of moments his gaze settled on the spot where her mouth should be, and when his eyes flitted back up to hers, he could see in her gaze that she had noticed it too, and perhaps had realised his thought before he had even managed to form it inside his head. In that moment his mind went blank and he could think no longer, or if he did, it were no thoughts but rather a maelstrom of consciousness, pulling him down, ever down.

_Perhaps he should kiss her. Perhaps he should press his lips onto her cold lips. Perhaps he should press his mouth onto hers and breathe some warmth into her. Perhaps he should pull her into his arms and never let her go. Perhaps in his arms she would never be afraid or hurt ever again. Perhaps he should do none of these things. Perhaps this was all wrong. Perhaps …_

A tugging motion around his fingers tore him out of his increasingly erratic thoughts and put him back to reality. Blinking, he became aware that he was moving and that his feet were carrying him and that his wife was leading him back to bed. For a crazy moment he wondered whether she had read his mind, or was it not said that Elvish blood bore Elvish gifts? But no, he found that she was a woman like any other, or perhaps not quite.

As she gently put him to bed, she didn’t come to him with open arms and open lips, but instead she softly pushed him down, to have him lie on the bed and then put the blanket around, tucking him, as any mother would do for her boy – but she wasn’t a mother and he was no longer a boy. Honestly, the situation was so unexpected, so strange, and at any other time he would have laughed, but found that he could not. He could tell that this here didn’t come natural to her, and her attempts at care-giving were wobbly and well-intentioned at best, like a young foal trying out its first steps; to be kind and warm and caring, loving even – she had known to be like that once, but it almost seemed as though she had been made to unlearn it, and now she had to learn it all over again. So no, he would not laugh at her for this, not when he felt so strangely comforted by it.

‘Since I was a boy I haven’t been tucked into bed like this … ’

Lothíriel looked up from her hands to see him smiling at her, and even though he didn’t grin from ear to ear she knew he was only teasing her. She sat back to watch her work and as she saw him lying there, buried in the bed, wrapped in his blanket, she couldn’t find it in her heart to scold him for his teasing. After all, she knew he was only trying to cover his slip-up, because she doubted not that she was probably the first person ever to have seen him in such state and to have witnessed him at his lowest and most vulnerable moment, and she understood his need to try and appear above such weakness. He was a man, after all, and a king at that, and, unfortunately, for men like that everything that wasn’t strong was considered weak.

‘Would it help if I sang to you? Or shall I tell you a story first?’

Her king didn’t grace her with an answer but she hadn’t expected him to – what kind of king would like to be teased? All the same, she saw him smile and that was all the encouragement she needed, and so, sitting next to him on the edge of their bed, she began to tell him the same story her mother had always told her when she had had a nightmare as a little girl, and after her mother had died, she had told that same story to herself when the nightmares had started. As her king’s face was shadowed by the moonlight behind the bed, she couldn’t quite tell if he actually enjoyed her bedtime story but he listened to her retelling the tale of the _Watermaiden_ all the same. And after, after the bitter ending to the tragic tale, the bitter parting of the two lovers, lovers who were as different as the land and the sea, after the recounting of the painful longing for the sea, she started to sing, and she remembered that song from her mother, too; and perhaps it even was the bittersweet memory of her mother that fuelled her heart-felt rendition of the ballad.

‘Come into my boat, a storm is coming, and night is falling.

Where will you go? All alone, you drift away.

Who’s holding your hand, when it pulls you down, into the deep?

Where will you go? So shoreless is the cold, dark sea.

Come into my boat, the autumn wind tautens the sails.

Come into my boat, our longing is our helmsman.

Come into my boat, the best mariner was I.’

When the last verse had left her lips and the last note had been sung, she became quiet, gripped by a sudden, almost unbearable melancholy; she hadn’t actually managed to sing all of the song, too great had been the pain of the memory of her mother, and so she had rather chosen to end the song before the tears already pricking in the corners of her eyes had any chance of falling. Looking over to her king, she eyed him cautiously and when she found his breathing slow and steady and his eyes closed, she knew he was asleep, and she exhaled the breath she didn’t know she had been holding and all the strange tension fell off of her at last. But when she moved to get up, ready to go over to her side of the bed and to go back to sleep as well, his hand reached out all of the sudden, holding on to her wrist, and she heard him whisper to her in the silent darkness of the night, ‘It would help us both if we held each other.’

For a moment Lothíriel was too shocked to react, to even move or think. She was exhausted, tired, and all she wanted was to go back to sleep in the hopes of escaping her nightmares long enough to get some actual rest. But his hand was holding on to her, and though his grip was not very firm, she did feel the need behind it, and though she doubted not that he would let her go if she so desired it, she also knew how much effort it took for him to admit to such a need and to show such vulnerability in front of her. He wanted her to stay with him, and she could feel, just _feel_ , how much he needed her in that moment – and perhaps, she needed him, too.

And so she nodded slowly, softly, almost imperceptibly so, and when he held up the blanket for her, she quietly crawled into bed next to him. Surprisingly enough, they fit shamefully well together. With his left arm under the cushions, she could rest her head on them without having to bend her neck out of shape, and as she was smaller and thinner than him, the blanket proved big enough for two people. Of course, he got comfortable much quicker than she did; while she folded her hands before her bosom, almost as if to shield herself from too much contact, his right arm snaking around her waist and his hand on the small of her back gently pulled her closer until it was hard to tell where she ended and he began.

It was strange, she thought, to be so close to him in such a vulnerable moment, or to be so close to him at all, and the thought of the other times she was this close to him, made her blush furiously, and she was glad for the darkness of the night then. Only once before in her life had she lain in bed like this with a man; her brother Amrothos had held her like this once, coincidentally enough, after a nightmare had woken her – but that had been different, Amrothos was her brother. And Éomer … he was her king and he was her husband, no more – and with a sigh she relaxed at last and eased into his embrace – no less. And for the first time in a long, long while no nightmares would disturb their sleep for the rest of the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUN FACT #1: I once experienced a nightmare episode of sleep paralysis, with hallucinations and immobility and all - didn't go to sleep after that for the rest of the night. So yeah, my inspirations for chapters always so fun ... *facepalms sleepwalking*
> 
> FUN FACT #2: I always tuck my boyfriend in when we go to sleep - he told me to put that in the story somewhere because it feels "like a comfy woolly coccoon of warmth". *Mission accomplished*
> 
> FUN FACT #3: The song is actually a rough translation of a song by the German band Rammstein. Check out the cover by Apocalyptica and Nina Hagen, "Seemann". It's amazing!
> 
> FUN FACT #4: Ok, question time - who or what was Éomer dreaming about? I left clues!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE I AM - ROCKING LIKE A HURRICANE!
> 
> Long time, no read, my lovelies, but I have returned to you ... now at the turn of the tides (yea, please, pandemic, could you fucking turn down now?!)
> 
> Next chapter next friday (pinky promise!).
> 
> Enjoy and spread a little love by leaving a comment!

**9\. Brothers in Arms**

The clanging sound of swords echoed across the plains and cut through the otherwise peaceful quiet of this February morning. The sun was shining unusually brightly down from the clear blue sky, and the light was haphazardly reflected off the blades as they met and separated, again and again, in a dance that was both elegant and brutal. In between one could hear the sounds of heavy, laborious breathing and groans of exertion, but other than that, nothing disturbed this moment of brotherly contest between two riders, between two best friends.

Éomer stepped back and lowered his sword, signalling his friend Déor to do the same, calling for a much needed time-out to their sparring session. Trying to catch his breath, the king leaned back against one of the big, protruding rocks that had been erected in a circle some thousands of years ago, before ever a rider had raced through that sea of grass they now called the Riddermark. Looking at his friend standing there, balancing the tip of his sword on the palm of his hand like a green boy playing at being a master swordsman, or rather like one of those court jesters he had seen down in the South, making light of heavy, serious things – it made him realise how much he had missed this: this companionship, this easy tomfoolery, this atmosphere of levity.

It was such a relief to be only a man for once, a friend, a companion, and not a king – if only for a few hours. He had missed this carefree lifestyle of a being rider among other riders, of not having the burden of a whole country constantly weighing down on him, of only enjoying the company of a comrade just like any other. Of course, Éomer knew that this would make it even harder to return to his role as king and that it would make the weight of the crown on his head feel even heavier or to have the troubles appear so much more troubling. With a sigh, Éomer took a long and deep drink from his waterskin, having the water swirl around in his mouth before spitting it out again. His friend, however, as it would seem – and as it always had been, and probably always would be – didn’t seem to have a care in the world, and in a way the king was glad and thought, with a smile, that some things and some people just never change.

When his friend Déor, son of Féor, had returned from his month-long scouting mission last night, the two old friends had celebrated their reunion as they usually did: by getting hopelessly drunk on mead and dark ale until they were dancing around the hearth in the middle of the golden hall of Meduseld, clad in nothing but their breeches, with his friend sporting the king’s crown and with the king styled with a chequered horse cloth draped around his shoulders. Truthfully, it was a rather ridiculous affair he was glad no one had the misfortune of witnessing, although it was suspicious that the two of them did wake up this morning with their golden hair neatly braided in a long tail down their shoulders. Of course, Éomer quickly suspected his sister and swore revenge, but since both men were rather hungover and felt more than just a little nauseous they postponed their masterful plan of vengeance until they felt like the smell of food no longer initiated their gag reflex. Thus, after dunking their head in a bucket of frozen water to clear their heads, they had decided to energise themselves by having a little sparring session a few miles outside of Edoras.

The old friends had agreed to leave Edoras behind for a while, to just ride out into the open wilderness, and to leave the stifling constraints of ruling behind; to just be a rider for a while, and not a king; to sit upon a horse rather than a throne, and to carry a simple sword rather than a crown. Soon enough that ride-out had turned into a sparring session, and it was a much needed break from what they were used to: to fight for sport rather than your life, and to fight at all rather than to suffer in restlessness; impulsively, irrationally, longing for the fighting days of old – when warriors were needed, when warriors were relevant, when warriors could make sense of the world through the single swing of a sword.

Unfortunately, however, it hadn’t taken very long before his friend had managed to ruin this momentary respite for him by starting to share his report from his scouting mission with him. Truly, it was hard enough to suffer the emasculating shame of having his friend take over his duties as First Marshall of the Mark and to act in his place – traditionally, it was the king himself who held the title of First Marshall, but since he had been so swamped with his new royal duties, he hadn’t found the time to make the obligatory rounds throughout the counties – but then to sit there and listen to all the ways in which his land and his people were fucked, and then not be able to a damn thing about it, well, it had been simply too much.

At first, Déor had rambled on about how “swell” things were going – much of Helms Deep was restored; if not to its former glory, then at least to a certain level of decent defence quality. Next, he had babbled something about farmers “returning” to their farmsteads – of course, he more or less tried to leave out the fact that these farmers returned more or less dead to their more or less ruined farmsteads. Lastly, he had prattled on and on about the “fair maidens” that had entertained him on his journey throughout the Mark – of course, he had glossed over the fact that most of the “fair maidens” were women widowed by war, and that their hosting was little more than a sleeping place in a shed with (hopefully) dry straw as cover and cushion.

But what really got to him were not the single cases of tragedy and loss brought on by the war – what really got to him was the over-arching sense of hopelessness that had gripped the land and its people. Wherever one looked and wherever one listened to, hunger and despair had ravaged the once so proud Riddermark: homeless widows left with no family or home, wandering through the plains, trekking from village to village, begging as they went; parents that starved to feed their children; children that were abandoned by their parents because food was scarce; men who had lost their families in the war, roaming the wild, sword in hand, ready to fight a battle that was already lost; wild boys with no families terrorising villages, having lost everything they now took whatever they wanted, regardless of law or lives or honour.

The more his friend had talked, the more Éomer had felt like a king that had let down his own people – and already he feared the tales about his reign that would go down in history (if there would be a Riddermark still after his seemingly ill-fated reign): Éomer _Awierged_ , Éomer the cursed, the king that doomed his own people, the king that was no king at all. That alone would have been enough to sour the mood of any man, but he wasn’t just any man, and even if he had not been born grim, life had made sure to make it thus.

Therefore, Éomer had thrown himself into their sword training, wanting to prove himself at least in that category, but at long last, evidenced by his unusual shortness of breath and the aching of his joints, he had to acknowledge that even in his capacity as a warrior he was lacking of late. He had simply wasted too much time sitting around, talking and debating, or in other words, he had simply grown soft. So, there it was: he couldn’t rule, he couldn’t fight and apparently, at least according to his beloved sister, he couldn’t fuck either.

In that moment, had he been alone, Éomer would have probably withdrawn and shut himself away, to sit on his wooden throne, staring into the fire of the eternal hearth, brooding on the many ways in which he had failed himself, the people he loved and the people that called him king. But he was not alone, and his friend Déor, seeing far more easily into the hearts of men than he would let on, knowing quite well what doubts troubled his king, would not allow him to give up on himself so easily, and so, the rider stopped playing around with his sword and instead swung the blade in a challenge to his friend, winking as he stepped back, pretending to bow, and with a snort Éomer took the bait and pushed himself off the rock he’d been leaning on.

And in between the thrusts and slashes, in between the parries and sidestepping – in between them exercising some of those old bones weary of peace and hungry for adventure – they resumed their conversation, with the king questioning, and with his friend and right hand reporting dutifully and with no flowery speech this time. It became clearer and clearer that the situation was not bettering and that the Mark was in dire need of help, though the two of them could not think of how to do that. It were just too many problems all at once, and to tackle one problem, meant that another issue unattended quickly worsened; it went without saying that the Mark could not survive on damage control alone and that real change and real solutions were needed to be found and were needed to be found quickly at that.

‘And what about your wife?’, the rider interjected then, all of the sudden, and still too battered by the conversation he had had with his sister, the king immediately took offence, his mind instantly on the defence, jumping to irrational conclusions rather than processing the logical enquiry that was offered.

‘My wife?’, Éomer asked quietly, his voice dangerously level as he lowered his sword, bringing their sparring session to an abrupt halt and Déor couldn’t help but notice the warning tone in his king’s voice. Now that was odd, the rider thought, almost with something like amusement, and he couldn’t miss the way his king gritted his teeth as he spoke or the underlying threat that swelled in his words as he said them. Déor had heard that tone before, that fiercely protective tone, but only regarding the king’s sister (not that the shieldmaiden would need it …), and to hear it used with regards to the new queen, well, it was _curious_ to be sure.

‘Yeah, Captain Crimson Head, your wife – _our queen_?’, Déor clarified in that typically quipping tone of his, and Éomer knew that tone well: it was the tone his friend always used when he meant to tease him viciously; but surprisingly enough, as quickly as that joking tone had come up, it had vanished just as quickly and was replaced with a more genuinely serious tone, ‘I mean, I’ve heard it said those Southerners are cunning and clever in the ways of solving problems – perhaps, she could show us some of that politician spirit her people are famed for?’

‘Cunning? Clever? Southerners? I think you mean back-stabbing, conniving and conceited.’, Éomer jeered contemptuously as he mounted a mock-attack, twitching in one direction and then another with his sword, meant to surprise and confuse his sparring partner, and it did, though the very obvious shocked surprise on his friend’s face had less to do with his mock-attack and more with his words. The king knew he was harsher than he had any right to be, and that it would be unfair to put his wife on the same level with those Southern court cringers and manipulators, but the Riddermark’s experiences with Gríma Wormtongue had made them all weary and wary of politicians, and after all, for him showing strength was not yet compatible with asking for help.

‘Oh? Is that why the royal sheets have grown cold so quickly?’, Déor exclaimed then with no little amount of surprise, swinging his sword lazily back and forth, and now it was the king’s turn to be shocked, but then again, he couldn’t deny that it was true – he should have known that some people would deduce too quickly that their lord was shunning his new wife (though he had hoped it would remain secret for much longer), and yet, the true reason for it was much harder to explain, ‘Well, I guess, if I had a viper in my bed, I’d probably kick it out t – ’

‘You better hold your tongue now, friend, or I’ll smash in those perfect teeth of yours.’

The king spoke slowly, deliberately slow, and yet the words carried a punch with them rivalled only by the beating of a hammer. Freezing with his sword in hand, Déor knew immediately that caution was in order. Now, there was no longer that playful tone between them, and the shift in the air made the rider prick up his ears. The voice of his king was hard and his tone threatening, and for the first time in many, many years, Déor wondered whether they might actually end up with a real fight; and somehow that uneasy atmosphere in that moment had him recall the last time he had seen his friend and king seethe with such anger.

Once, back when they both had been teenagers, green boys in training to become true members of an _éored_ , one of their fellow trainees had made lewd comments about Éomer’s sister and, what was even worse, about his mother – jokingly asking if his mother had fucked an Orc. It had been stupid and reckless and essentially harmless, a foolish comment that had meant no actual harm, but somehow, and perhaps understandable given the sad family history, that one, ridiculous comment had had his king fly into such a rage that it had taken all his might and powers of persuasion to calm him down, and to keep him from tearing that other boy into a thousand pieces. Back then, putting himself between his king and the boy that had teased him, well, it had almost had the best friends at each other’s throats, and that incident had been quite memorable, as it had taught Déor that no matter the companionship they had, the wrath of his friend was something to be feared, something that wouldn’t even stop at friendship. Because, for some reason, when it came to the women in his life, his friend and king was fiercely protective, even to the point of unreasonability, but perhaps that was only to be expected from one that had seen his own mother and first female figure wither away in such young years.

‘My wife is an honourable woman and she is not for you to talk about – she is your queen, and don’t you forget it, or I’ll forget myself.’

‘Easy there, berserker.’, Déor spoke, half in jest, half in earnest, taking a step back, the sword clasped behind his back to appear as little challenging as possible so as not to further fuel his king’s quick temper. Of course, it was curious to witness such fervent protectiveness in a man for his wife bound in a political match – after all, when he had left for his scouting mission almost two months ago, the king had hardly known his wife and now he already defended her as though she were a blood relative. That curiosity deserved some prodding, the rider deemed with a cheeky smile.

‘But while we’re on the subject of your wife – how’d you find married life?’

The king knew that he had talked himself into a trap, and by _Béma_ , it hadn’t been the first one since he’d become a married man nor would it be the last one. Sure, his friend tried to appear casual in his line of questioning, but he wouldn’t fool him – he had known Déor all his life, and if there was one thing he knew for sure, then it was that his friend was not one for subtlety. Déor was a rider that was as curious as he was bold, and both had helped with the women and with the troubles it frequently got himself in, but that was not unusual as Déor was considered what people around here called a “pretty boy”: a wanton, cheeky lecher that as of yet had managed to charm every woman he had met out of her undergarments and every friend out of money, mead and secrets.

‘Save your breath – I’m not in the mood for words of advice.’

‘Good grief, Slayer, when were you ever?’, Déor joked sardonically, even having the audacity to wink at his king without shame, soldiering on relentlessly and mercilessly in his quest to uncover the newest, latest, tastiest morsel of gossip to chew – as for Éomer, this conversation began to resemble more and more, painfully, the one he had had with his sister not a week ago and he didn’t like it, he didn’t like it one bit, ‘But perhaps it would do you some good to unburden yourself, my king?’

‘I’m not going to talk to you about that.’

‘Why not? I’m a very good listener – ’

‘ – and an even better talker, I know.’, Éomer threw in, cutting him off, _shutting him up_ , remembering well the last time he had divulged some intimate information to his best friend. Back then, after he had become king, he had tried to explain to Déor that for the sake of his kingship they had to change some things in their friendship, if only for appearance sake, to show that they were now not only drinking buddies and comrades anymore, but that one of them was a king and the other a subject. Of course, for some reason, that had led to his friend mockingly falling to his knees whenever his king had happened to stroll past him and ending every other sentence with “Your most elegant, royal, majestic majesty”. Needless to say, that shut up the king pretty quickly after that about boundaries, royal protocols and changed relationships, ‘Save your words, I’ve already had enough of them from my sister.’

‘Really? The shieldmaiden used _words_ to hammer some sense into you?’, Déor asked slowly then, almost carefully so, but not for fear of provoking his king, but rather because his scepticism regarding his friend’s answer was even more bogged down by his amusement over it, and the tone in his question made it abundantly clear that the rider was not buying the euphemisms with which his lord and king tried to shield his manly pride from taking any not too manly or prideful hits, ‘How’d that go, I wonder?’

His reaction was slow and subtle at first but quite telling nonetheless. At first, the king didn’t seem to react at all, staring into the thin air before him as though trying to stare down an enemy locked in sight. Then he slashed his sword through the air a few times, swinging it against the nothingness before him, although Déor reckoned his friend and king was actually imaging more than just thin air as his opponent. And then at last, he stopped, lowered his sword, and looked up into the sky above him before releasing the heaviest sigh he had ever heard, ‘She punched me in the face.’

‘That well, huh?’, Déor hummed slowly, not an inch of surprise making his voice waver. Walking over to a large, protruding rock inside the stone circle, the rider leaned against the stone, leaving his sword to slowly but surely burrow a little hole into the snow-caked ground beneath him. All the while he was watching his friend and king slice through the air with his own sword, _Gúthwinë_ , battle-friend of a hundred battles, though, as it would seem, now it failed to properly do his master’s bidding, and the frustration over this seemed to flow through all the motions and stances the king made, accentuating each with a series of grim grunts. However, the rider couldn’t quite shake the feeling that this frustration had less to do with the underwhelming fighting performance of a once nigh-unbeatable warrior and more to do with brotherly annoyance or sisterly grievances, or rather, the catalyst thereof.

‘So what’d you do?’

For a moment, the king was quiet and stopped swinging his sword, lowering it slowly to have the tip touch the white earth between his boots, and he seemed very interested in that particular patch of snow all of the sudden. Funnily, it was the only reaction Déor really had that he had actually heard him, and the rider, knowing his friend so well, could see the gears in his head shifting, debating with himself whether to be honest or to brush it aside, and it was the first real sign that told him that his king had really fucked up this time.

‘I called her a tomboy in a woman’s dress.’, Éomer spoke slowly then, at long last, and Déor could see how hard it was for his king to bring himself to talk about this – though, as he raised a sceptical eyebrow, he knew that this couldn’t have been the thing that made the shieldmaiden snap (she wasn’t called a shieldmaiden for nothing, and in all honesty, “tomboy” probably sounded more like a compliment to her than “lady” ever would), and so he waited for his friend and king to continue, and sure enough he did, ‘I screamed at her. Told her she was jealous that I was married … and she was not.’

Déor blew out some air in a short but poignant whistle as he sat down, clearly getting uncomfortable. Having known the siblings long enough, he knew full well that they had a way of fighting that could frighten even an Orc to death, and it was no secret that the shieldmaiden was angry over her prolonged engagement, but as it would seem, even rubbing that in her face hadn’t been enough for the king, as he saw his best friend take a deep breath in order to continue, ‘I taunted her with it. Threatened to challenge her … her _betrothed_ to a duel, if they had – ’

Éomer stopped at that, unwilling to go on, and for that Déor was more than just glad, because, as he saw his king blushing, actually _blushing_ , he didn’t need to hear more to know what his friend had feared might have happened between his sister and her fiancée, and it was every brother’s worst fear. To get to know first-hand that his little sister was a real woman now, with real desires and a very real lover – well, there was a reason the custom of bundling had fallen from grace in the last few generations, because while for some it was too little intimacy, others feared for (and often rightly so!) too much intimacy too early, ‘I taunted her saying if she were such an expert, she should lend a – ’

‘You fucked up.’, Déor stated matter-of-factly, shutting him up before his friend and king had any change of finishing that sentence.

‘I fucked up.’, the king repeated, just as matter-of-factly, slumping down next to his best friend, and for a while the two men remained silent, each suspiciously thorough in inspecting their swords for rust or other damages, each deeply lost in contemplating their own thoughts with varying degrees of brooding involved.

It wasn’t particularly hard for Déor to understand now why the shieldmaiden had reacted the way she did; to be perfectly frank, he was more than just surprised that the shieldmaiden had only slapped the shit out of her older brother and not taken his head clean off his shoulders for his remarks. It was no secret that when it came to their pride and quick temper the two siblings were in no way inferior to each other.

‘Alright, now I know what you did.’, Déor said then, cautiously, after a while, a long while, hoping that the worst of the storm had passed by then, ‘So, what’d she say?’

At that, Déor could see his best friend squirm, clearly uncomfortable with divulging what had previously riled him up so much that he would insult and provoke his little sister to the point where she used physical violence. Not that physical violence was particularly uncommon for these two; Déor remembered, having grown up with them, brother and sister being at each other’s throats more often than not – challenges and dares that got out of hand, childish jealousy that resulted in toys stolen and broken, infantile vainglory that led to scuffles on straw-covered stable floors. But the thing was, despite all that, they loved each other fiercely, it was just that some love was expressed in more volatile terms than others, even if that volatile condescension was only for show.

‘Come on, Éomer! You can’t just saddle that horse and then don’t mount it – so what’d she say?’, Déor turned to his friend and king and saw his face constrict almost painfully, but other than that he stayed strong and he stayed silent, and so the rider threw up his hands in defeat, whining like the impatient, overly inquisitive boy he still was at heart, ‘Fine! Don’t tell me! I’m sure we find something else to talk about!’, and though he was a charming trickster, he was not a particularly gifted actor, so his pretending to think hard on what to talk about next was not very convincing, not even to a born and bred rider of the Mark, ‘Oh, I know! Did I tell you about that lovely hanging I had the extraordinary pleasure of seeing? Oh, yeah. I passed through that lovely little village – I’ve quite forgotten the name – and they’d just strung up a pair of wild boys.’, and while he had always been quite the fast talker, by now he was talking himself into a veritable rage, ‘Yeah, not quite fourteen years old, part of a ragtag band of ruffians looking for food and valuables – they’d raided that village and set fire to a bunch of huts, having their winter stocks practically go up in a puff of smoke.’, and then he laughed, but there was no joy behind that laughter, ‘So the village elders sentenced them to be hanged. _Boys of fourteen, hanged_.’

‘What did you do?’, the king asked then, interrupting his friend, though there was little more to interrupt, as the rider had finished his tale with the sad fanfare of a dying fire; but it was not the unusual courtesy of hearing him out that surprised Déor the most, it was the quiet, almost defeated tone with which he spoke and just like that, all the pent-up anger the rider had been feeling up until this moment was snuffed out. And it was quite troubling because normally his king wasn’t that calm and collected when faced with the deterioration of his land and his people.

‘There was nothing I could do for the two boys on the gallows.’, Déor explained then, more calmly this time, but not because the issue had lost any of its painful feeling of regret or anger but because it was no use crying over spilled milk and what’s done was done, ‘The rest of their band I ordered to remain at the village and help rebuilt it and to replenish their winter stocks – as compensation. In return the village had to take them in – feed them, clothe them, house them.’, and with a sigh the rider finished his sad tale as he threw a pebble across the field, and at least that action felt like it had some impact, ‘It was all I could do. It wasn’t much but it was something … ’

‘Good idea. I would have done the same.’

Déor looked over to his king and just seeing the way his friend hung his lead low, arms rested weakly on his knees, well, it was enough to break even a grown man’s heart – he had always known Éomer to be particularly prone to self-doubts but this here was practically a depression show. Resting his head against the large rock behind his back, Déor closed his eyes, and for a moment allowed all that frustration to fill him – it was the very first time that his friend and king gave himself up like that. Usually, his king always provided him with a lovely target, to tease him, provoke him, challenge him, to cheer him up even, but this here … he seemed defeated, so lost he wasn’t even desperate anymore. It was a truly chilling sight to behold, but that image was exactly what the rider needed in order to spring back into action again.

‘Yeah, great, I’m practically king material.’, Déor threw in lamely, with not even enough passion to elicit a smile from himself, let alone his king, ‘But I don’t think you really wanna talk about my scouting mission either. Frankly, I’m too scared to mention your sister, so unless you wanna continue to sit here and brood like a – ’

‘She saw me.’

‘What?! Who did?’

‘My wife.’

‘Well, given your relationship, I’ll take that as a step closer towards new royal foals. Now you only need to – ’

‘No, you damned bugger, she saw me have a nightmare.’, Éomer interrupted then, jerking his head to the right to fix his friend with an almost surely deadly glare. That was enough to shut the rider up, having his mouth round into a silent but comprehending “oh”. Of course, a part of him was even glad about that verbal slap because now there was at least a bit of that old fire sizzling beneath the broken and depressed surface. That other part of him, however, understood immediately where this conversation was going and he wasn’t sure he was prepared to go there. The war and the blood and the fighting and the sorrow had had an effect on all of them, and though they had each other’s back and knew well enough that much and more of the horrors remained in their heads, they rarely talked about it. It was stupid, really; a foolish act of stoicism, as though what they had seen and done had not affected them; but perhaps, it was more than that – perhaps it was the fear that once this dam was broken it could never be repaired, and that the torrents would have them all wash away and drown in them.

‘She didn’t run.’, the rider heard his friend and king say next to him, and the words had been quiet, little more than a whisper, and he could hear the confusion in them, and that confusion he understood so well. After all, what kind of woman would wish to stay when faced with a monster (or, at least, the monstrous memories of past deeds), let alone fall for a beast?

‘No? Good woman.’

‘She was scared of me, and she had every right to be scared, but she didn’t run.’, his king continued then, and it was as though he hadn’t heard him, as though, by now, he was completely lost in his own thoughts, trying to understand something that had seemed so impossible to him, ‘She … she comforted me.’

‘Oh, really?’, Déor crooned, daring to wink at his king like a madman with a death wish.

‘Not like that, you bloody lecher.’, Éomer growled with no little amount of threat in his voice, and the rider knew immediately that it was time to back off, and instead let his king, for once, do the talking; and without interruptions or lewd comments his best friend continued at a much calmer tone, but with no less amount of confusion over the strange incident and its outcome, ‘It was strange. She … she seemed to know exactly what was going on with me.’, at that he made a pregnant pause, as though still trying to make sense of it all, and with a strange look at the light reflected from his blade he continued, ‘She suffers from nightmares, too.’

‘Really? What kind of nightmares could a Southern princess have?’

‘I wouldn’t know, now would I?’, Éomer snapped, glaring at his friend, warning him with just one look to tread carefully, ‘But I’d sure like to know.’

Of course, in that situation every other man would have known to keep his mouth shut and his head low; every other man would have nodded, silently and gravely, sharing in the manly brooding that was going on – but Déor was not every other man, and he had never known when to shut up, ‘Well, in that case, I have some radical piece of advice for you: why don’t you talk to her about it?’

‘And tell her what?’, Éomer roared then, exploding at long last, turning on his friend with as much rage as there was desperation, ‘What it feels like to chop somebody’s head off? What it feels like to hear the screams of the dying? What it feels like to plunge your sword into a man’s heart and see the life drain from him? What it feels like to see the people you love most in this world dead? What it feels like to ride into battle, expecting to die … and then not die?!’, and then he was quiet for a moment, and the sudden onslaught of silence felt even more chilling after all that shouting; but what was even worse was the quiet brokenness that followed, ‘No, she doesn’t need to hear that. Nobody needs to hear that.’

For a moment, all was quiet then, excerpt for the screeching of a hawk that flew somewhere in the sky above them, and in that moment, Déor was tempted to leave it at that and to say no more – because what else was there to say? The rider wouldn’t be so hypocritical as to pretend that he couldn’t understand the mindset of his friend or the misgivings that lay underneath it. The trauma of war was harrowing enough, but a cruel twist of fate made it even worse: as battle-hardened heroes they were expected to be above it, to bravely deny the existence of fears, because if they were to admit that they were afraid, that even the shadows in the night could make them cry out like babies, could they call themselves heroes any longer? And even if they cared little and less about that, about what a man was supposed to feel and not feel, how could they share any of the terrors that gripped them still and would perhaps forever do? Who would understand? Who would not be frightened, disgusted even by the wild thoughts that ran through a warrior’s head? Who would be brave and kind and foolish enough to take their hand and willingly enter the hell that was their mind?

Indeed, it was a useless thing to dream of _what ifs_ and _what could bes_. There were simply some things one could not talk about, even if one should. And that was exactly the point that bothered the rider the most and that had him speak then with, perhaps, less tact than he should have used – because if two lost souls could find peace by finding each other, why should they insist on staying on their own lonely path?

‘That’s a nice sentiment, brother, but she’s your wife – not some random woman you wanna impress.’

‘What are you talking about?’, Éomer countered, for a moment too confused to react with his usual anger, but, sure enough, that anger was returning in full speed – furious glares and wavering voice and all. But at this point the rider didn’t care any longer; he had been friends with his king for so long that his wrath could no longer frighten him – or at least that’s what he told himself, and so he persisted: like a daredevil poking a bear with a wooden stick.

‘I’m talking about that false sense of bravado, that narrow-minded show of stoic strength – is that why you’re keeping her from governing, too?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’, Éomer scoffed, instantly reverting back into his defence mechanisms, instinctively shutting the gates to the emotions and fears he had shown earlier, ‘The only one keeping her from being a queen is she herself.’

‘Well, perhaps, she could be one, if you’d only let her in on the problems we’re facing.’, Déor interjected, feeling his own anger rise to match his king’s fury. Of course, he could be projecting here. Perhaps, the queen’s absence from the public or her absence from her role was mere coincidence, but he knew that if the queen was broken in her own way, she might feel as insecure about ruling as her king did, and if that were the case, she would need all the support and encouragement she could get – and right now, he doubted that this stubborn stud of a king had any idea how to support or encourage his young wife. But, perhaps, he should keep his nose out of this, perhaps he had no business poking around in matters that were too big for him, but he had seen first-hand what self-doubts and a smouldering inferiority complex could do to a person with potential, and he was determined to not let it happen again.

So, it was understandable, that the tone the rider took with his king was hardly acceptable between monarch and subject, but it was not only his friend’s happiness that was on the line here, or his wife’s slumbering potential, but also the fate of their whole fucking kingdom, ‘I mean, _Béma_ forbid, you would ever ask anyone for help!’, and then the rider laughed again, another one of his humourless laughs, because, honestly, there was really not much to laugh about here, ‘Seriously, what do you think is going to happen if this country goes to shit?! She’s one of us now, and if we go down, we’ll take her down with us – and all your kind sentiments won’t spare her that.’

For a moment, all Éomer wanted to do was explode; to grab his best and oldest friend by the collar and to pummel him to the ground, to smack that smug grin that he always wore from his lips and to knock those perfect fucking teeth out, too, for good measure – but he did none of that. Of course that didn’t mean that he wasn’t fuming inside about the dark futures his friend was painting or what this would mean for his wife. But perhaps it only had him riled up so much because a part of him knew that his friend was right, though he was too stubborn to admit that yet. So, instead of beating his best friend to a bloody pulp, he took a deep breath through the nose and actively tried to calm down, ‘Thanks for the defeatism. I really needed that.’

‘You’re welcome, your most elegant, royal, majestic majesty.’, Déor countered then without skipping a beat, and the smug grin and the shameless wink and the teasing title had the king groan with no little amount of annoyance, partly regretting not having kicked the wits out of his best friend when he had had the chance to do it, but now it was too late, and all he could do now was to endure it, ‘I’ll always be there whenever there’s some ass-kicking needed.’

But although, chuckling, for a _long_ moment, at his king’s growing annoyance, Déor soon remembered his self-imposed mission, ‘And it’s not defeatism; it’s the sad, honest truth. We’re fucked – you know it and I know it. And it’s precisely because we’re fucked that I think it high time to look for guidance in uncommon places.’

Turning to his friend, he could see his king thinking, and though he was sure he could almost see the exact moment when his king saw reason, he doubted not that he still had some misgivings about the whole idea of involving his wife in his rule and in his most private thoughts, and so, as he slowly rose to stand, brushing the snow off his – in his opinion – perfectly formed arse, the rider mounted one last attack, to persuade his king to open his mind and his heart to the possibilities presented by his young queen, ‘Come on, Éomer, she’s your wife – not some slimy bastard with a forked tongue.’

‘Rather with no tongue at all.’, the king scoffed, at long last allowing himself some humour to lighten the dark mood from before, though he probably should have taken better care to phrase his words more carefully or to think beforehand what his friend might make of them.

‘Oh? So, that’s why the royal sheets have grown cold!’, the rider teased then with a smug smile planted on his pretty face, which resulted in freezing the smile on his king’s face into place, before having it turn into a mask of fury again. And just like that the king was up and running after his best friend with his sword drawn and swinging, shouting at the top of his lungs as she chased him out of the ring of stones, ‘Just you wait, you bugger, till I get my hands on you!’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUN FACT #1: I've suffered an Otitis externa (and that also hindered my writing), which means my ear was hurting like hell when I swallowed or talked or wallowed in my misery - oh, and I was deaf on my left ear for a week. Yeah, so that was fun in school when I kept asking my students to talk louder. ;)
> 
> FUN FACT #2: So, someone asked why Éomer didn't discuss any of his marital issues with a friend and that reminded me that I hadn't written one for him yet - so, there you go, I hope you like Déor, because I sure as hell do! *writer's excitement intensifies*
> 
> FUN FACT #3: School's closed earlier because of Corona which - ironically - left me with a lot more work than I'd usually have the week before Christmas. But, fuck that, my birthday is in less than a week and I am hyped as shit!


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Here we are, back at it in full swing!
> 
> Thanks for all the people liking and commenting and reading!
> 
> Now enjoy and spread a little love by leaving a comment!

**10\. Trouble in the Golden Hall of Meduseld**

On  the stony floors of  Meduseld even her usually soft and soundless steps now echoed wild and loudly  because of her hurried pace, making each step bounce back with an almost profane volume from those nigh sacred walls. Usually she would have been more cautious about making such noise, but usually she would have been more cautious, too, about roaming freely along the halls of  _ Meduseld _ . But of late – and if she were truly honest, ever since her husband had gifted her so sweetly – her reservations slowly seemed to make way to curiosity and a will to explore and to experience. She wanted to learn more of the country she was one head to, wanted to learn more about the capital she resided in, wanted to learn more of the culture she had married into, the people she had come to lead. 

At first, her steps in doing so had been small – and quite literal at that. Where before she had seldom left her chambers she shared with the king, she soon started to explore the other premises of _Meduseld_ more often and more freely, and once she moved about the _Golden Hall_ with ease she pushed out further. Soon she took her first steps down the _King’s Road_ in Edoras that led her into _New Town_ , the part of the capital usually occupied by the nobler or wealthier people, where often the advisers of the king used to dwell when not called upon. But _New Town_ had not satisfied her thirst for long; and after she had paid visits to almost every noble family in _New Town_ , after she had spent hours and hours with pleasantries and echoes of haughty aristocratic chatter, she had sought for a more earthly, more meaningful exploration of her new home.

Using her learning of the language as an excuse she had started to accompany her maidservants to their daily chores: stays at the washing rooms of the royal household, trips to the market, visits to the kitchens. In doing so she not only managed to brush up on her language skills by way of natural conversation but was also granted a rare insight into the doings and workings of Edoras and its people – the way politics and economics, social structure and traditions wrought themselves through every aspect and part, nook and cranny, corner and place of the capital. She experienced first-hand the different economic structures – where in Dol Amroth coins of silver and copper had been means of exchange, here a bartering system took precedence, as almost no one had the means or need for coins – or the seemingly foggy social differentiation – as there was a vivid intermingling of the different social ranks among the market in _Auld Town_ , the part of the capital further down the slope of the hill, closer to the wooden ring of the wall, inhabited by the more rustic people and craftsmen of the city.

After a while she began to understand that education was a fine thing to have but it was very different from learning, and that knowing was not the same as understanding. It was one thing to know of the judicial or administrative workings within the capital, or without, so different from the Gondorian structures, and then to actually see them in practice – witnessing a live auction of some work horses at the _Auld Town_ market let the Southern art of striking a deal appear overly convoluted and stiff.

And through every action of daily life and part of the day traditions and customs seemed to flow, akin to the roots and branches of a mighty tree – the faces and shapes of horses, carved into wooden beams, carved into stone, but also the sun and its rays shining through every product of daily use. The young Queen of the Mark began to realise that the Rohirrim worshipped their God _Béma_ , the great Rider and Huntsman, through their daily life, and the sun was as much part of that worship as their horses. To open the windows and doors in the morning to let in the light of the sun was to invite luck and blessing into one’s house; to touch the horse’s wooden head, carved into the main beam or gate of the house, or even a simple iron horseshoe hanging at the wall, was a blessing before leaving or entering a home; to live close to the stables was considered a blessing in general; and the mire given off by the horses was said to have miraculous abilities – dried and burnt it warmed and cleansed the house of evil spirits, used for the fields it was supposed to bring a bountiful harvest, and smeared upon the wooden door frame of a newly-wed couple’s homestead, it was meant to bring blessing and fertility to the young union.

All in all, she could safely say that she had learned more about this land and its people in these days spent in the company of her maidservants than in all her reading and tutoring in preparation for her marriage. That was not to say that her reading had been without merit; however, it had taught her more about how the world saw these people and their ways than really enlightening her about their actual way of life. In the eyes of the world it was an easy thing to mark these people down as uncultured, backward and uncouth – and she was ashamed to admit that her views had not been much different when she had first come here – but once you allowed your eyes to open up, you would learn that they were cultured and well-mannered, though in their own ways.

However, one thing she could not but frown upon, and that was their art of healing, or at least, that which they chose to title as such. It had been more or less a coincidence that she had chanced upon her latest vein of interest; one afternoon as she had accompanied her maidservants Madlen and Aida to the _Auld Town_ market, she had witnessed a horrific incident: while some stable boys, who were supposed to attend the horses they led through the market centre, had played foolishly around the steeds, one green boy had received a kick to the chest, so hard it left him flying and ended with him having a few broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder and a pride justly shattered.

Although she had withstood in that particular instance from intervening, she had soon regretted her decision. She soon came to learn that though most women were already quite learned in the healing powers of several different plants that grew in the Plains of the Mark, only few had ever learned the deeper and more complex art of healing: consequently, most women still believed that burning out fresh wounds would stop the bleeding (while this act was more probable to be the cause of infection and fever), and their technique of setting a broken arm or leg resulted, more often than not, in the lifelong lameness of the limb. Ever since her discovery she had set it as her mission to train the women in Edoras interested in the practice of healing to achieve a more advanced and educated approach to healing. Yet, it was not so much a stern tutor lecturing children, but rather an exchange of knowledge, for where she was schooled in the more surgical and higher arts of healing, the women of the Mark stood unrivalled in their knowledge of the power of plants and herbs, and therefore in their frequent sessions they sought to learn as much from each other as possible in order to perfect their craft of healing.

And thus it was that she was now on her way back from just such a session – the _Æthelmund Tavern_ in the centre of _New Town_ had been the most generous host of their schooling sessions, making the way back to _Meduseld_ pleasantly short in the still brisk late winter chill. It was then, as she was passing through the hall of the side-building on her way to the royal chambers, passing by the doors that would lead her to the throne room, when she heard loud voices, so loud in fact that it stopped her in her very tracks. The voices came unmistakably from the throne room, and though they were crying and shouting with an angry volume, it took her a while, due to her still poor understanding of the Rohirric language, to comprehend the words that droned even through the heavy wooden doors. _Hunger. Hopelessness. Lawlessness. Death._

At that Lothíriel Queen found the hairs in her neck stand up, goosebumps spreading across her back, and some drive pricking under her skin. Usually she was not fond of spying – she was too well-bred after all in the upper-crust manners of the South to lower herself to such level – but sometimes she could not help it, in particular not when her interest was so peaked. With the stealth of a cat she opened the door, slowly, cautiously, so as not to make a sound, and to only have it slightly ajar, just open enough to allow herself to peek inside and to catch a glimpse of what was going on inside.

Inside an image unfolded that spoke not of the benevolent power relationship between ruler and ruled, of a king receiving the pleas of his subjects with open ears, an open heart and a clear head. Instead she was witness to a scene that made it unmistakably clear that something was seriously wrong in this land, and had been for some time. There inside the throne room she gazed upon what she believed to be some sort of council meeting but the dynamics seemed somewhat askew. A handful of royal advisers – easily discernable by their higher quality clothes and straight backs and heads held haughtily high – stood in front of the throne dais, assembled in a semi-circle, heads not bowed in obedience or lifted in pleading, but chins pushed up defiantly; the sight giving off somewhat of a menacing vibe. The King, however, Lord of the Mark, did not sit upon his throne to counter this image of defiance with regal poise but rather stood there at the topmost steps of the royal dais, face set in a colour of blood-red, eyes black of anger, left hand unconsciously gripping the sword at his side, the crown lying discarded on the wooden horse throne.

Seeing all this, the Queen felt immediately ashamed at her spying, for she realised this was a sight no one was supposed to see, and a scene no one was supposed to witness. Instinctively, she felt her Southern principles revolt at the mere thought and idea of it. A ruler challenged by the ruled was a thing unthinkable, and even more so unspeakable, and yet this situation here was unmistakable. _A king was supposed to be more than a man_ , an old voice inside her chided, _but a king was still a man like any other_ , another, newer voice answered not without compassion. And nowhere was this as clear as here in this scenery that unfolded before her, and she realised now how little she actually knew of the state of this government and how dire the situation actually was, and how little she actually was the Queen that this country needed. Éowyn had been right: _a great king was in need of a great queen_ – and she had been shamefully remiss in her duties.

Lothíriel, compelled to know more, to learn, to understand, to become the queen she needed to be, leaned in closer, opening the door even further, even dangerously so, hoping to decipher anything that would help her to be a help to him. But listening was not always understanding, as she realised to her own dismay. The advisers were talking fast, almost stumbling over their own words, and although they were talking loud enough for her to hear it all, she could not understand their meaning, not fully at least, the language barrier proving to steep to brace just yet. She knew that they were angry; that much she gathered from the furious tone in the voices of the king’s advisers or the angry looks the King shot back at them; but apart from that she only caught snippets and pieces of information.

However, just because she barely understood the scene unfolding before her, that did not mean it held any less of an interest for her. Her eyes focused on the shape of the king; as he was wont to do, whenever he was in public (or within the confines of public attention), he wore his armour – not a full battle armour, of course, but rather the armour of a Marshall of the Riddermark; a title, she had come to realise, that he favoured more than the crown of king. As her eyes lingered on the shape of her husband, she remembered the Southern ladies who had crooned and swooned at the sight of the Swan knights or the guards of the citadel in Minas Tirith, their gleaming valour shaped by silver-steeled armour, and how much she had abhorred those wanton hens with their wanton eyes, and how little she could understand their wanton gazes.

Now, however, she understood the appeal: there was a type of man certainly flattered by the shape of armour, and she could not deny that her husband was that sort of man. It was true that she did not favour spying but she could not pretend that she did not take pleasure in watching that husband of hers, especially when she, for once, was not disturbed by him staring at her. After all, he was not an unattractive man; not as fair, perhaps, as the Southern gentlemen, with their slick, dark hair and fine features, but there was a certain beauty to his wildness – it would indeed be a hard thing not to fall to him.

While the young Queen drank in the sights, bereft of thoroughly understanding the words spoken in angry voices, the conversation inside the throne room, meanwhile, went on; and while the advisers addressed the king with furious words, nothing rivalled the fury of the king himself. From one moment to the other, Lothíriel was thus caught off guard. With a bang the king appeared to end the council’s discussion as he slammed his fist onto the armrest of the wooden horse throne, silencing everyone one in the room. Lothíriel, flinching at the sound, twitched back with her whole body, the hand that had until now so carefully held the handle of the door lost control, and with that the handle slipped soundly from her grasp, making the door swing wide open, creaking as it went. If the Queen had thought to slip away quietly and unseen from this little spying adventure, she had been mistaken. All of the sudden, everyone was was aware of her presence, every pair of eyes focused on her, and, for a split of a second, before she turned heel and fled, she even met the shocked and mortified gaze of Éomer, her husband and king.

* * *

Wrapped up in furs and pelts, blanket pulled up to her chest, propped up against the backrest of the bed, Lothíriel Queen watched silently and thoughtfully as her king and husband undressed, just as silently and thoughtfully. All in all, it appeared to be an evening like any other; her being already in bed, waiting for him to undress, to take off the garments of reigning, to take off the sword-belt, to put aside the blade, and to join her in the bed they shared. However, this was not an evening like any other, and in more than just one way.

Lothíriel followed her king and husband with watchful eyes as he undressed further; her sharp gaze did not miss that while he took of his waistcoat and shirt, he refrained from taking of his breeches, and the young Queen did not mistake this meaning. For a week now her husband and king had not been sharing her bed – at least, not in every way that mattered – and she doubted not that her sister-in-law had made good on her promise to try and “rectify” the problem between the married couple; it would only seem now that her king and husband had taken badly to the advice.

Of course, while she could not deny that a part of her was certainly glad to be given some break from his frequent advances (after all, they brought her little pleasure, even if they brought no discomfort), she also could not deny the problems it created. After all, this marriage was an alliance for peace, and for this to last, something lasting had to come out of it, and for this to happen, a husband could not shun his wife, especially if that husband was a king and that wife was a queen. It was only a matter of time, she mused, until the servants would start to notice (if they hadn’t already noticed it!) and the rumours and gossip would start.

However, there was also another reason that her king and husband shunning her bed was on her mind; there was another part of her that felt strangely melancholic about it, as though she actually missed it. Closing her eyes for a moment, thinking back, images flashed in her mind of eyes squinted in lust, hands that touched with sensual precision, flesh that moved with primal intent. When she opened her eyes again, she felt the red of her shock and shame taint her cheek, scandalised at her own thoughts, frustrated at her own shame. Searching for anything to distract herself from the tumultuous feelings inside her, she sought to direct her thoughts elsewhere, leaving her to ultimately return to what she had witnessed today.

Ever since she had stumbled upon the council meeting earlier today – and had been caught in her curious spying – her thoughts had circled around the incident, again and again. Granted it had been fairly little what she had understood, but the furious tone and menacing vibe of the situation had been dire enough to stay in her thoughts all day. Whether it was simply curiosity or the newly-found need to be a queen worthy of the title, Lothíriel felt the urge to address what she had witnessed; but her shyness and hesitation made it hard for her to speak. _Rise with the tides_ , she reminded herself, the words of her House, that had been imprinted on her the day she was born, leaping up in her mind, like a wave, almost like an incantation – _Rise with the tides!_

‘I heard voices today. Was there trouble in the Golden Hall of Meduseld?’

Éomer, who had sharpened his sword with a whetstone in order to help clear his mind of today’s troubles, stopped in his doing, for a moment too surprised and perplexed to process that his shy young wife had chosen to address him of her own accord. Usually, she was quiet and reserved, and only talked when spoken to, so for her to address him first, and regarding such a troublesome incident as well, it seemed truly unlike her, and yet he found himself liking it. A part of him wondered, however, whether or not his beloved sister had given some advice to her as well, though he shuddered to think how intimate her advice might have been. But, remembering the “conversation” he had had with his best friend Déor, the king felt his hesitation wavering, recalling, painfully, that they were in this together.

Putting away the sword he stood and sat down next to her on the bed, trying to gauge her expression, and when he found it to be genuine, he took a deep breath and began the long and sad tale of the woes of the Mark. After the war had ended, most of the supplies and hoards had been exhausted in the sieges or stolen in the raids; attacks and skirmishes had not only cost many lives of many able-bodied men, but also ruined whole settlements, farmsteads, fields and livestock. And although the summer after the war had already passed into legends, the harvests had not been nearly enough to sustain them all. Families had been torn apart, leaving only ruin and dark thoughts and darker actions behind. Women bereft of husband or provider had been forced to live as beggars and wanderers. Children bereft of their parents had taken to loose bands surviving by means of lawlessness, stealing what they needed, turning into wild children, lost to all civilization and civility. Men bereft of their wives and children had formed bands bound by grief and despair, reacting with wrath at the unfairness of the world, and turning that wrath into thieving and terrorising. All in all, they did not know how to feed or clothe or house the survivors of the war, nor how to combat the lawlessness that had taken root in the more remote plains of the Mark.

After listening to Éomer’s sad tale, they were both quiet for a long time. Lothíriel watched her husband and king lost in his troubled thoughts and in that moment she felt her heart break for him, and for the country and its people she had for so long left to their own devices. She wanted to believe that had she known how dire the situation really was, she would have acted sooner, but then again, when she had been made to come here, she had not really cared to know much more of the land than she had already come to believe, choosing to see only the unwelcoming and uncouth exterior of the country and its people, and thus to shut herself off, rather than to recognise the beautiful country it was with the many troubles it faced, and thus to open herself up to help.

In that moment she would have been sure to drown in her regret and shame, but rather than wallowing in her own misery, she chose to counter those feelings with action and advice. _A great king was in need of a great_ _queen_ _, after all_ , she reminded herself, _and a queen needed to be more than just the wife of the king, she needed to lend ear and give counsel, she needed to support right choices, even if they were difficult, and to oppose wrong ones, even if they were easy – in short, she needed to rule with him._ And thus Lothíriel found herself trying to slowly ease herself into the role of queen, found herself trying to cheer up her downtrodden husband and king, by offering words of wisdom – not direct counsel yet, and credited not to herself though; after all, not every man took kindly to a woman presuming to spout advice.

‘I’ve heard it said that a good king is much like a good father: kind and forgiving, but also strict and stern when needed, but never cruel. All children must obey their father, but they should never fear him. Fear breeds only anger and hatred, and where hatred reigns treachery and foul deeds are never far away. No, all children need to be able to believe in their father, and to trust him, to protect them, to provide for them, and to pass just judgement on them.’, ending her little monologue, the young Queen looked up, trying to gauge the reaction of her King, and when he nodded slowly, encouraging her to go on, she beamed at him, taking breath to continue.

‘A king is father to a thousand children, and they are all his to protect, all his to provide for. Would a father let his children starve? No, he would break the bread, into smaller and smaller pieces, and share so that all would be cared for.’

‘I'm afraid, Lothíriel, even rationalisation won't help us feed all our children.’

The young Queen blushed at his words, shy eyes cast down. She knew he had not meant it like that but the very thought of having his children made her heart beat faster, though whether it was out of fear or out of excitement she could not say. Rattled and thrown, stumbling over her words, looking for anything to say, Lothíriel was rendered practically speechless, and it took her more than a few moments to regain her composure. Licking her lips, she added quietly then, shyly even, as though to admit defeat, ‘You are their king, you will find a way.’

Looking up, she finally met the gaze of her husband and king and a strange emotion shone in his eyes, but rather than it being a look drenched in pity and ridicule, it showed surprise and no small amount of admiration, and he was smiling – not a grin, not a smirk, but a genuine smile, full of warmth that reached his eyes and reached her heart. She knew he was not a man to smile easily, but he smiled now, and he smiled at her. That sort of smile was enough to forget about a kingdom of troubles, but not for long.

‘I had no idea you were interested in such things.’, Éomer finally said, breaking eye contact, and breaking their momentary connection, as she too was torn out of the moment, averting her gaze, trying to recompose herself. As he cast a quick glance over to her, he still fought with the revelation of her hidden depths, but then again, had it not been he himself who had chosen not to include her counsel? He who had kept all those troubles from her? He who had thought her too fearful, too weak, too meek to care for anything other than her own troubles? Perhaps, Déor had been right all along, and the king doubted not that he was just one of many to underestimate her.

‘I wish only to be a good wife to a great king.’

Éomer blinked at that, and watching his wife’s bowed head, her bent posture, how the whole of her body seemed to shrink, as though she could ever make herself small in his eyes. Considering her words, a part of him felt anger at her feeling the need to make herself small, but another part of him remembered his friend’s advice, and he wondered whether or not he had really been the only one to be at the receiving end of his friend’s wise words. _A great king was in need of a great queen_ , he thought, _but a queen could only be great if her king possessed the greatness to allow her to become great –_ _would he be a man of such greatness?_

‘You are not just my wife, Lothíriel, you are my Queen also.’, he paused, licking his lips, taking his time, wanting to encourage her, to impress on her that her counsel would be of value to him and to the Mark, that they needed her, that _he_ needed her; but he was not a man of big words, and the right words had never come to him easily, but he was a man of honour who had prided himself in always telling the truth, and thus he spoke the truth now, ‘You have a voice in the council, too.’

‘I'm afraid I am too quiet for the council to be heard.’, the king was taken aback by her words, and he realised then that she was truly afraid; afraid to speak lest she would be silenced for her forwardness, afraid to leave the safety of her shell lest she would judged, afraid to take the reins of power lest she would fail. Éomer could relate to that last fear at least, or did he not think himself unworthy of ruling? And yet he ruled, as best he could, but that did not mean that he was not painfully aware of his own shortcomings; he was more warrior than ruler after all. But she – she was born to rule, coming from a family with politics in their blood, she who had been prepared all her life to know all, to see through all and to instinctively understand; and yet she held back, pulled back by her fears and own feelings of unworthiness. _If a great king was in need of a great queen, then a great queen was in need of a great king as well._ Resolved and hardened in his decision, Éomer spoke again, and this time he swore to show the greatness she deserved.

‘You _are_ their Queen. If you choose to speak they will listen.’, at that his young wife and queen looked up, and perhaps it were the words he spoke, or the fervour with which he spoke them, but finally she seemed to believe him. And yet she still seemed visibly unsure of how to proceed, since for the first time she was asked on her opinion on matters that, well, really _mattered_ , and thus he added, with every ounce of assurance that he had, ‘Tell me then, and I will listen.’

Lothíriel gazed back at him, trying to gauge his expression, the sincerity of his words, but it was not necessary, for she knew him as a man of honour who spoke only the truth, and nothing but sincerity and truth was in his eyes, and thus out of belief grew bravery. Giving herself a push then, she began to speak, tentatively at first, but growing confident ever more, ‘Well, I know it might not be a lasting solution but I know for a fact that the grain stores of Dol Amroth are always full to the brim and the region of fair Lebennin is known for its rich produce. What I mean is that … ’

‘You mean charity?’

‘Not charity. Rather an exchange of goods wanted by both parties.’, she paused at that, unsure if she should proceed, struggling with her conflicting desires until she gave in, and with a painful bitterness she thought how proud and smug her father would be right now, ‘I’m sure there are enough products that the good people of Gondor are in need of and that the South has a hard time in procuring.’, looking up, Lothíriel saw that he still wasn’t convinced, and she knew that this scepticism was largely fed by his pride and him not wanting to ask for help or to appear weak. It was a belief she knew many a man held, and she knew even more that it was a belief that had already cost many a man dearly. But to think that to be strong was to be hard, and that softness and compromise were signs of weakness, it was a way of mind that was a gateway to be hard and soft in all the wrong situations. Lothíriel felt saddened by this, but rather than giving up on him or condemning him (as she would have done before), she felt propelled into action. _After all,_ _a great king was in need of a great queen, and to learn you needed to be taught first._

‘My lord, this is the union for peace, is it not? The alliance meant to bring our two countries closer together?’, she started softly, carefully, anxious not to appear too forward, anxious not to appear too preachy, after all, no one liked to feel like they were being patronised, or feel as though they were simple or lacking. And indeed, her strategy seemed to bear fruits, as her husband and king nodded slowly, his eyes showing him listening intently, and thus she added, cementing her first true steps in turning her warrior into a king,‘ Then by all means, let them grow close.’

‘Go on, I’m listening.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUN FACT #1: 10th chapter! That deserves some reward! Everyone may ask me 1 personal question and 1 question regarding the story / writing process. But let's try to avoid spoilers, shall we?
> 
> FUN FACT #2: Lothíriel's father will be important later on - until then, learn what you can from the bread crumbs I'm providing ...
> 
> FUN FACT #3: By now, I have already published over 100 pages of this story - currently I've pushed past the 200 pages mark. So, let's just say this story went end too soon ...


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again with a new chapter in a new year! *YAY!*
> 
> Thanks for all the comments, likes and alerts!
> 
> Enjoy reading and spread a little love leaving a comment!

  1. **A voice to be heard**




Standing outside before the doors of Meduseld, the doors leading to the Golden Hall and the council within, Lothíriel, Queen of the Mark, sucked in quick and nervous breaths of ice-cold air, shaking with more than just the cold, as she waited for the doors to open and for herself to be called in. Next to her, she could hear her sister-in-law sigh in frustration, not used to having to wait; it was clear that her sister-in-law did not share her own feelings of tension, nervousness and uncomfortable inadequacy. And why should she? The shieldmaiden had attended the council meetings for years and years, assuming the role of Lady of Meduseld from an early age on – this was nothing that could frighten her, if indeed anything in the world could. But for Lothíriel; she only had to take one long look at those high and mighty doors, decorated with carvings upon carvings, telling the long and grim and proud history of the Mark, and they were enough to frighten her, and what she feared most of all now, was to disappoint.

It had not been her idea to attend the council meeting but Éomer, and even more so Éowyn, had insisted. Lothíriel knew that for her husband he only meant to make sure that she took credit for her advice, and to appreciate her worth as a partner to him, trying to show his appreciation in what awkward way he could, but her sister-in-law had more than that in mind. For some time now Éowyn had been pressing her to take on the role of Lady of Meduseld and to assume her full duties as Queen of the Mark – up until now those responsibilities had still been handled by her sister-in-law, but no longer.

_Who will take care of the people of the Mark when I’m gone? Who will rule the Golden Hall?_ , she remembered Éowyn asking her once, leaving her little room to retreat from her direct request or indirect accusation, _I have played the part of Queen long enough, sister, but it ha_ _s_ _never been my part to begin with, it was yours, always_ _yours_ _, and it is_ _high_ _time_ _you start taking it_. There had been little use in fighting her argument, and in her heart Lothíriel knew she was right, but that did not mean that it made this any easier. After all, if you’re told over and over again that your thoughts are of little consequence to the world, it was a miracle to keep thinking at all, but to pluck up the courage to speak out despite all, to try and speak out to a world that would and would not listen – the sheer impossibility of success, the sheer certainty of failure, of rejection, embarrassment, and the realisation of her own inadequacy and inconsequentiality, it made her breath stutter, her chest tighten. A fear like that she had only known once in her life before – but now there was no threat of fire or noises of terror; the terror was in her mind, and she herself was the true reflection of her fear.

Closing her eyes, Lothíriel spoke a silent prayer to _Ulmo_ , her god, her Lord of Waters, and tried to will her doubts and fears away, trying to calm herself, trying to steel herself, to prepare for what was to come. She knew that after these heavy doors were opened she would have to brace the long walk to the throne dais on her own; Éowyn would walk with her, but some paces behind, leaving her the sole object of attention. She knew it was a necessity, a tradition even that the first entrance of a Queen was marked as a special occasion, in particular since it was an even rarer one. Of course, the Queen of the Mark traditionally had always had a seat and voice in the council of noblemen, but only upon the express wish of the King would she be allowed to partake, and even fewer Queens had actually assumed their right of advise – the Queen Morwen, mother of the late King Théoden, was one of the few exceptions, and she had been of Gondorian blood as well. Lothíriel wondered then whether her predecessor had shared her very same fears in that moment or whether she had braced those steps with the toughness that gave her the nickname _Steelsheen_. No, Lothíriel was sure, the Queen Morwen had been made of steel, the only question was, whether she, ever the gentle Swan Princess, could be made of that same steel as well?

‘And what if I fail?’

Lothíriel did not know that she had whispered those words out loud, and she only came to realise it when she felt Éowyn lean close to her, only for her to whisper words into her ear in return, ‘You could never fail, sister, for I am with you every step of the way.’

It was in that very moment that the call came from the inside and the mighty doors before her were opened, and the first thing her eyes focused on was the face of her husband and king, watching her expectantly, and it seemed as though the old doubts and fears would grip her once more. But then she felt her sister-in-law’s hand squeezing hers with encouragement and heard her last words before she began her walk into the Golden Hall, and it had been all she needed to hear, ‘Never forget, sister: you were perhaps not meant to rule, but you were made to rule nonetheless.’

Yes, even a swan could have feathers made of steel and today she would stretch her wings to see if she could truly fly. With slow steps she walked across the threshold and entered the hallowed Hall of Meduseld with unwavering determination; her eyes ever fixed upon her husband and king, ever her goal in mind. Pacing along the aisle of councilmen with sure and proud steps she could feel her sister-in-law following her just as she had promised, just as a personal guard might, and it gave her further courage and strength; strength enough indeed for her to dare let her eyes wander discreetly across the faces of the many men she passed.

Some of them did look as sceptical as she had feared, and some even looked at her with some emotion that resembled anger, but there were others, too; she could read hope in those eyes friendly to her, and then there were those gazes she had known so well all her life. _So it must be for the Elves_ , she mused, _whenever we mortals look upon, with eyes so full of wonder and awe._ And it was not a very far-fetched reaction, she knew, after all, was it not said that there was Elvish blood in her family?

Of course, some faces she already knew. There was Lord Braenn, one of the highest ranking noblemen in the king’s council, and he was one of the grimmest faces in the crowd; but then, there was also the face of Déor, and he was a friendly face for once, and as she knew him to be her lord and husband’s closest friend, so did he know stand closest to the royal dais. He was good man, as her husband had assured her repeatedly, and to his credit, the rider had worked hard to befriend her – consequently he became, perhaps, even a little bit too friendly for her taste, though. She had come to know him as an eager, jovial young man who loved to drink and laugh and talk, and she had come to know him as a man who cared little and less for royal protocols or noble conduct – why, even now that rascal dared to wink at her with that smug smile of his!

And as she passed these men she could not but notice – just as she done when she had first come here – the differences between herself and them. They were all clothed in colours of greens and browns and a gold that looked more like the yellow shade of corn, but then again, it all made sense: after all, they were a people best described as the salt of the earth, their lives a meagre, basic necessity, made of common clay, functional but simple, and yet happy in their simplicity – their land and soil was in their blood and thus their dress showed it. But there was no land in her blood, in her blood was only the sea, as it was for all her people. For the people of Dol Amroth, of Dor-en-Ernil, the sea was their true home, forever calling them, beckoning them, and thus their deep-seated yearning shone through in their clothes, their flowing fabrics of satin and velvet, reminiscent of the waves that leapt onto their shores, their colours of blues and greys, silver and black, pure and regal, but also cold and remote.

Before she had come here, she had never before worn wool in her life, nor flax or hemp; satin and velvet had clothed her all her life – nor had she worn greens or browns or gold, for they were the colours of the earth, and she was of the sea. Blue had always been her colour; not the airy blue of airy courtiers, but the darker shades of blue, reminiscent of the darker, deeper depths of the sea. But here she had to start taking roots, and thus she had chosen to leave her watery silky dresses behind, her sea satin gowns and ocean chiffon garbs, and instead put on a dress of rich dark green and linen making, with only a wisp of light blue gossamer on top, rendering her apparel turquoise, somewhere between blue and green, somewhere between water and earth. And while her dress still flowed as freely and elegantly as a waterfall might, her sleeves were tight and practical and showed that she meant business.

When she arrived at the dais, she bowed deeply before her king to show her respect before climbing the few steps and taking up her place beside him. The thundering sound of the closing doors signalled the true end of her traditional entrance, and with a sigh she felt some of the tension and poise falling off her that she had clung to so resolutely just moments before. She felt almost out of breath, as if she had run all the way from the gates up to her seat in the Golden Hall, but she had mastered her entrance with the grace expected of her and she was glad for it. Risking a quick look at her sister-in-law (who had discreetly placed herself behind her seat) out of the corner of her eyes, Éowyn winked at her cheekily, and she knew then that her traditional entrance had been a success. With a small, triumphant smile on her lips, Lothíriel shifted her focus back to the council meeting that had just been opened by the King and allowed herself to fall into the patterns of social and political conduct she knew so well by heart. Head held high, straight up, chest out, hands neatly folded, eyes keenly ahead: _let the show begin._

* * *

The King sighed in frustration and sat back, closing his eyes for a moment to calm his anger that threatened to well up again, as it so often did. _Béma!_ _Whoever said that it was good to be the king had never ever actually been a king_ , he thought sourly, and teeth-gnashingly he opened his eyes again. Looking ahead, he focused his attention on the heavy doors of the hall of Meduseld that would open momentarily and give way to the Queen and her entrance. It had been a long morning already and he had spent the better part of it arguing with the councilmen about his decision to include his wife and queen in the ranks of the council. Not that this council of his was usually tame and easily swayed to his decisions, but on this particular morning they seemed to be especially non-forthcoming. Whether it was the fact that she was a woman or that she was a foreigner, some of the councilmen seemed positively affronted by the idea of his wife and queen taking her place up beside him, and had argued their position with unmoving firmness. _Damn them all_ , he thought in cold anger, cursing their stubborn pride, _he was king, and his word was the law, in this as in all other matters – and if he sought a woman’s council, he would damn well get it_.

At that moment the doors of the golden hall were pulled open, letting the sunlight flood the deep room, and with it the Queen of the Mark entered. At first, she seemed small, insignificant even; yes, despite all her willowy height, she seemed small, her whole posture exuding an air lacking confidence, an air that spoke of fright and the feeling of inadequacy. She truly seemed like a fish out of water here, internally flapping, twitching desperately, trying to escape this situation, gasping for air, grasping for retreat – but she would find none.

There was no going back from here, only going forward. And you could see that realisation slowly dawning on her; thus reluctance made way to acceptance, acceptance made way to determination. But there was also something else, something more, and you could just see it in her eyes, the flicker of it, like the silently strong current beneath the glassy blue surface of a calm sea. And like the swan buckling up, spreading its wings, she appeared to grow taller with every second, her presence growing confident, strong, awe-inspiring, her eyes so full of focus as she finished her walk towards the throne dais with sure step, as she herself seemed to throw a shadow large enough to fill the room.

As she took her place beside him, he could feel the tension in the room, but it was not the sort of tension he had dreaded – instead, there was almost an atmosphere of awe reflected in the faces of his councilmen, as though after years and years of brooding debate they had been enlightened at last to be faced by true power and grace. And to be frank, he could not blame them for it – as her eyes had searched his on her way to her seat beside him, he had been hypnotised by the sheer will power conveyed in those dark blue eyes, as deep and knowing and unknown as the ocean itself. He realised that in this moment he had, perhaps as the first person ever, caught a mere glimpse of the great queen she truly could be, and it was magnificent and terrifying and awe-inspiring all in one.

Risking a quick look to the side, he saw that all too familiar mask descending on her features, the mask of utmost poise and manner, a proper lady, but more than that, a proper politician, as there was a cool, deliberate determination in her stature that showed that she would be making decisions with her head rather than her heart or – as was the case for him, more often than not – the guts. There was absolutely no doubt in his mind that she very well knew how to navigate the treacherous swamp of politics, or that her ears heard more than was said, or that her tongue was sharp enough to easily cut the throat of every seasoned warrior in this room. But most of all, he mused, she knew how to be patient and to wait for the most opportune moment to strike. She would truly rise with the tides.

* * *

At the beginning of the council meeting they wasted away their time with pleasantries: the councilmen congratulated the queen on having taking up her place among them, thanking her and wishing her well, although Éomer knew only too well (and he doubted not that his wife knew this as well) that none of them truly meant it. But soon enough they returned to the usual order of business, and then all they talked about was the shortage of corn or the bad condition of the earth, the number of destroyed settlements that needed to be rebuilt.  T hey had no food to last another winter, the orphans and widows and surviv o rs of the War of the Ring could not be acco m modated; the surviv o rs, without order, sought their own ways so survive: small bands of thieves and robbers had formed in the Eastemnet that plundered already ruined villages and settlements – what was to be done with so many people? How to clothe, how to house,  how to feed them? Where would they get the corn, they had no money left to buy anything and not enough men to re-build their homes? 

All of the sudden the sound of someone clearing his throat interrupted the long monologue of the councilman; usually, the monologue of a councilman was only ever interrupted by the drawing of swords or words of anger or the command of his king, but never before had a sound so soft and small, so unassuming, dared to interrupt a seasoned councillor’s speech, and succeeded at such. Stunned into silence (except for the councilman who’d been speaking – it took him a few more beats to realise that no one was listening to him any longer), the council instantly turned to the source of interruption, their faces showing surprise, confusion or even frustration.

With this all eyes were on the queen, and it was clear how uncomfortable she was with all this attention directed at her; perhaps she had thought to escape this attention, or that her attempt at speaking would remain unsuccessful, but whatever she had thought, she had made the first step now, and thus she had to walk that path all the way down to the end. With a last look at her sister-in-law, whose wink emboldened her to trust in herself, the queen turned around, her eyes focusing on what was ahead, to see the task done. Taking a deep breath she took her first step, then another, and then she was slowly making her way down the dais, towards the centre of the hall – after all, to be believed was to be seen, and to be understood was to be heard.

‘Perhaps, my lords, the solution for these problems may come in very different shapes, and in ways unexpected.’, she had halted next to the big fireplace, and paused for a moment, seemingly looking for the right words to explain her position, but as the councilmen gathered around her bit by bit, leaning forward, hanging on the very words that might never come, you could just comprehend the true nature of her hesitation. Éomer smirked a sly grin under his short moustache, exchanging a knowing look with his sister, who looked like a proud mentor witnessing her protégé’s debut, but the king knew full well that this display of power and patience was not truly of their own making. Here they saw for the first time the full showmanship of a seasoned and cunning politician, and it was wondrous and sobering at the same time to behold; he doubted not that her carefully chosen words would have them all believe whatever she spoke, and thus, how could he ever believe anything this sweet, sour politician’s mouth spoke? She knew well how to entice and to manipulate, and she knew when to do it and when not do to it. Had she already wrapped him around her little finger, already caught him in her net like a trout, already caught him in her sling like a young filly? _But no_ , the king thought, shaking his head, returning to the present, _he had given this plan his blessing, and who was he to frown at her methods of persuasion?_

‘… the flora of the Mark excels in its variety of healing herbs and useful plants that grow all across the Plains of the Mark. In the South such herbs would be hard to come by which makes them only more needed, and more valuable. I know a great deal of merchants and healers that would pay a fortune for such a plentiful supply. This, my lords, is an asset we have to take advantage of, an opportunity we cannot miss.’, pausing, she glanced around, allowing herself a small, almost invisible smile, when she found none of the hostility she had feared she would be met with, and thus she continued, emboldened, ‘However, what I propose is more than just a financial tweak. I know for a fact that the Southern regions and principalities have recently decided to strengthen their commerce and trade by uniting the guilds of healers into one – that means that all healers receive their permissions from the government as well as their medicines and herbs. If we were to strike a bargain with the Southern healer guild through the governments, we could set the prices ourselves – why not let them pay us in corn and crops rather than copper and gold? And could we not also use that opportunity to utilize the restlessness that has taken deep root in the heart of this country and its people? To feed and care for them by their own hand? To give meaning to those that gave up on life and the meaning of it?’, murmurs swept the hall but she didn’t let that dissuade her; by now she had managed to talk herself into a mindset of optimism and hope, wherein each and every man would agree with her and see the sense in her ideas; and thus she went on oblivious to the stirrings of misgivings that she had caused in the ranks all about her, ‘I propose that those left without a home could attend to the planning, arranging and organisation of the trade, starting from the reaping of the herbs to its processing and finally its transportation and sale in the great cities and settlements of the South: Minas Tirith and – ’

‘My Queen, you would have us selling _weed_?’, a booming voice interrupted then and Lothíriel whipped around, coming face to face with a grim-looking councilman Braenn who had seen enough winters to have earned himself some stubbornness, if perhaps not wisdom. With a condescending sound, somewhere between a cough and a laugh, he continued to question her proposal, ‘For what? The pitiful charity of some Southern lords?’

Muttering gripped the crowd, half-whispered protests erupted, heads shook fervently, denying the perceived degradation of accepting charity from pompous Southerners; and in between all of this stood Lothíriel Queen, stunned into silence and intimidated, unsure of how to proceed. The King’s eyes turned to slits and his mood soured. Éomer could see how much effort it really cost her not to lose her composure then and there and he realised in this moment that she may have had all the learnings of a politician, but none of the practice. Surely, she had learned all the ways of politics, how to outweigh all the advantages and disadvantages of every decision by instinct, how to manoeuvre, plot and strategize – he was sure, she knew all of that by heart, but he doubted anyone had ever expected her to argue her point before, or at least not in such a manner, or to stand her ground and defend her opinions, her very own ideas.

Éomer exchanged a stolen glance with his sister, whose mouth turned into a thin, strained line that must have mirrored his own, who nodded in agreement before they both returned their attention to the centre of the hall and the queen within. When said queen started anew this time, she seemed to stutter a little but except to the trained ear, no one would have noticed.

‘My Lords, I can assure you it is not charity, if it is for the benefit of both parties – they would gain the materials they need, and we would be able to establish trade, replenish our food stores and find work and use for many people bereft of both.’, she expressed with hands outstretched in a gesture of good will, before she let them fall to her sides, pushing back her shoulders, lifting her chin in defiance and making herself tall as she focused on the single councilman who had interrupted her so rudely, ‘And it is not weed, my _Lord_ , these are herbs with healing properties that even the most uneducated of women know about.’

The councilman twitched back at her words, his cheek flushed with red, obviously affronted at her slide, and Lothíriel allowed herself a small, triumphant smile at her first successful blow, even if doubts nagged at her whether it had been such a smart move to aggravate and offend one of the most seasoned councilmen. But she ignored that little voice of doubt and concern. _Rise with the tides_ , she reminded herself with the words of her house; to be victorious one could not always play nice or fair, and to challenge the still waters could call upon the wrath of the sea.

‘And what about the brigands and the bands of thieves, my Lady? How do you propose to establish trade with them lurking about?’, the affronted councilman Braenn threw in, ready to spar with her again, ‘As we here understand it, you wish to send our men-folk away for the selling of your precious _herbs_ , to leave our rebuilding unattended and our borders unprotected – so who will deal with those ruffians and thugs?’

A nd with that, Lothíriel was sent reeling again. Truly, the problems of the Mark could not be satisfied with one solution alone, and she began to have her doubts that for this councilman any solution would ever be good enough. But, shaking her head, she also shook away her thoughts of this especially grumpy councilman – self-doubts would not see her through this, only courage and self-reliance would.  _Rise with the tides_ , she reminded herself,  _rise with the tides_ .

‘I understand your concern, my Lord, and do not mistake me, I would never dare rob the Mark of their _precious_ _ruffian-handling_ men-folk.’, she began once more and once more she proved herself a Queen too much to be handled by even the most seasoned councilman, and when snickers echoed in the hall, she knew that at least her sister-in-law seemed to appreciate that jovial remark. But she chose not to dwell on her second victory and instead continued, serious and focused, ‘But given your concern, my Lord, would you not consider your women capable of rebuilding their lands with their own hands? Yours is a sturdy women-folk that does not shy away from hard labour.’

Agreeing whispers rushed through the golden hall of Meduseld, old heads bobbing in nodding, each of the old men complimenting each other on the industrious women their people offered, with all of them ignoring that it was the land – and not the self-complimenting men – that made those women capable and vigorous. Lothíriel, now feeling that she had earned more than enough agreeable reaction to her ideas, continued with her boldest proposal yet, ‘And, after all, my Lords, since you all agree that your women-folk is of such sturdy, laudable nature, would it not be thinkable for those women bereft of husband and family to actively partake in the trade; to organize the sowing and harvest, to lead the delivery and supervise the transportation themselves?’

‘Now you would have us send off our _women_ onto some trading trips while the Eastemnet is crawling with thieves, robbers and other scum?’, the old grumpy councilman chimed in, laughing whole-heartedly, looking around to the other councillors to express his obvious dismissal of her proposal as ridiculous and unacceptable, hoping their faces would mirror similar misgivings, and the barely suppressed chuckles all about her told Lothíriel that they did.

‘How are they supposed to defend themselves? Truly, you cannot mean to send women to do man's work – ’

‘If you are truly worried about how defenceless the daughters of the Mark are, must I remind you, my Lord, who it was that fought in our ranks, defended our dying king and slew the dreaded Lord of the Nazgȗl before the White City of Minas Tirith?’

Silence fell upon the hall after the copper sound of a woman’s voice had cut through the condescending words of the old stubborn councilman, and then all eyes looked to Éowyn, sister of the king, shieldmaiden of the Mark, who had taken an angry step forward, her eyes alight with challenge, her stance wide and sure, her arms akimbo. Lothíriel swallowed hard as she eyed her sister-in-law giving her a confident wink; seeing the shieldmaiden stand there with full confidence it was not hard to understand how this blonde-haired woman could easily become Lady of Meduseld without being Queen, and the rightful Queen was once more reminded how much she was truly lacking compared to her sister-in-law. Even the councilmen appeared to see in the shieldmaiden more of a Lady of Meduseld than Lothíriel ever would be, and Lothíriel felt a pang of jealousy as she saw the stubborn old councillor who had defied her at every word bow low and lower before the Lady Éowyn. None of them would ever look upon her with even the fraction of that reverent respect, the Queen mused with bitterness, and, casting her eyes down, she hoped none would ever see the cold rage of black and blue waves crashing against her moral walls in her hard gaze.

With a sigh from deep within that was supposed to shed all her heavy and useless feelings of bitterness, Lothíriel looked up again, pushing her shoulders back and lifting her chin high, reminding herself that despite all, she was Queen and no one else, and that she would have to see this through to the end. Turning her focus back to the matter at hand, she saw the stubborn old councilman rise again, his back straightened, his smile as sweet and sly as any wolf’s as he began to speak once more.

‘Clearly, my Lady Éowyn, you are a marvellous exception to most women, who are inexperienced …’, the councilman glanced at her with his condescending look as he paused for effect, only to be met with her hard, unyielding gaze, ‘ … with weapons and fighting, and thus are defenceless.’, and then turning towards his lord and king, the stubborn old man sought to end this discussion once and for all, ‘We cannot send off our women without men to protect them, my Lord, and we cannot send away our men, for who would secure our borders when they're gone?’

Taking all of this in, Éomer King moved forward, elbows resting on the throne’s arms, his chin resting on his interwoven hands, his eyes lost in thought, but only for a moment, before his gaze searched for that of his queen once again. Lothíriel sighed deeply, thinking hard to remember all that she had talked over with her husband in private, and in the enclosed and confined intimacy of their chambers those ideas seemed oh so logical and practical and simple – but now, due to her incapability of expressing her thoughts and holding her ground, her ideas seemed neither promising nor persuasive. She felt the panic rise in her, desperation licking at her throat, tightening, closing in, and already she felt herself go short of breath, and was it not said that despair made the helpless go mad? Or how else could she ever explain blundering her way into this next misstep?

‘There are other ways in which we could ease the pain and desolation of this country.’, she started quickly then, almost stumbling over the words in her fervour, anxious to gain the attention of the councilmen again, but she could tell – from the sluggish way they turned to her again – she could just tell that she had long lost them on the way, ‘The men of the Mark are renowned for their skills at breeding the best horses far and wide, and why not re-establish trading relations with Gondor or the Elves of Lórien – ’

‘The Eorlingas do not sell their horses any more than we sell our dignity or our honour. But how could we ever expect a Southern lady to understand?’, the old stubborn councilman Braenn spat back at her, zeroing in on her like the hawk that spotted its prized prey, and Lothíriel realised then that she had walked right into a trap of her own making. Of course, she knew that the councillor did not speak the truth; the Rohirrim had been trading in horses far longer than even their home country existed, but this wasn’t how they chose to see it. If she called it trade, they called it selling short; if she called it a win-win-relationship, they called it charity – it didn’t matter what she said or did, she would remain an outsider and her ideas out of the question. It would appear the only truth those truth-loving horse-people saw or valued, was their own.

Lothíriel took one look at her king and husband then and she knew that she could still appeal to him, and he would listen, but that would mean that she would be giving in (the councilmen would never accept a king’s decision coerced by his begging wife), and she knew, if she gave in now, she would never again be given the chance to be the queen this country so desperately needed. _Rise with the tides_ , a small, powerful voice in her whispered then, and she remembered the day she had been caught in a murderous storm with her little sailing boat, how the winds had howled against her, torn at her sail, how the waves had crashed against the sides, rocking her violently, threatening to topple and drown and swallow her whole. Then and there she had decided not to give in to the might and force of the ocean, and she had lived to see the sun again, and if she could brace the violence and wrath of the seas, then she would also brace the prejudice and pride of old men so full of honour they could no longer listen to wisdom when they heard it. _Rise with the tides_ , the small voice whispered again, and this time she chose to listen.

Turning her back on her king and husband, she forewent all assurance and support in favour of her own strength, and as she pushed back her shoulders and lifted her chin the mask of the politician fell away to reveal the face of the queen. With sure words and a clear voice she addressed the men around her, ‘My lords, I understand your misgivings. It is true, I am a Southern lady who has seen very little of the world – your world – but I am a Southern princess no longer. I am your queen and your people are also my people whose well-being is my chief concern here, and thus I pray, do not so rashly dismiss opportunities that are presented to you by a voice young and unskilled.’, with a pause, she closed her eyes and took a breath, in, out, readying herself for the final blow, ‘If you truly believe that my proposition is not a solution to our people’s problems, then I will happily see you discard it. But, if you only wish to disregard it due to my presenting it, then I say to you: do not let prideful prejudice blind you to your people’s sorrows – our people cannot survive on honour alone. The choice is yours, my lords, and I pray you choose well.’

* * *

Lothíriel did not dare to turn around and look at her husband as she undid the hooks and eyes of her dress, slipping the first layer of light blue gossamer off her shoulders, letting it fall to the ground to pool at her feet, and for a moment she was reminded of the waves playing around her toes buried in the white beaches of Dol Amroth. When she looked up, however, to her reflection in the mirror, she was clothed all in green wool in her main dress, and the sight sent shivers down her back. Where was the swan-princess from the palace upon the island in the sea? Where was she gone? All she saw now was a horse-queen in a sea of green and she hardly recognised herself.

Looking into the mirror her eyes caught sight of her husband at the other end of their chamber, and for a moment she lost herself in thought, watching him. He was already half-undressed; waistcoat and shirt had fallen off, and the muscles in his chest danced as he sat down on the bed to take of his boots, the muscles in his arms flexing, and for a moment she wondered what it would feel like to be wrapped up in those strong arms, to be pressed flush against that broad chest. Would it make her feel safe? Would it make her feel held? Would it make her feelings of disappointment fade away into the comfort of a loving partner’s reassurance?

With a deep sigh Lothíriel closed her eyes, willing the thoughts and feelings away, and when she opened them she was shocked to see the look of her husband meet hers in the mirror, if only for a moment. Gasping for air, the queen cast her eyes down, feeling the red of her shame heat her face, as she busied herself with undressing further instead of losing herself in watching her husband and king. As she loosened the hooks and eyes at the back of her green main dress, to slip it down the length of her, she could not but feel the gaze of her husband on her, and for a moment, the old insecurities gripped her once more. She feared that on this day – her very first day as a true queen – she had failed her king and husband and her people, and she was not exactly sure whether it was disappointment or anger that she feared most to see in his green eyes, but when she heard him speak up then, she was surprised to find neither.

‘The meeting went well. I would hope that we could put your ideas into action as soon as possible.’

Had she heard correctly? Or had it just been her wishful thinking putting those reassuring words in his mouth? Lothíriel turned towards him, to see him sitting on the bed, inspecting his boots for holes, ‘But none of the councilmen agreed to it – ’

‘ – and none of them rejected it either. They are stubborn, but that does not make them any less perceptive to wisdom.’, he answered, looking up, and when he did, he found his young wife and queen staring at him perplexed, as though he were talking about flying horses or singing stones, and the way her forehead wrinkled in frowns and her nose scrunched up in confusion, was a sight so amusing, he fought hard to keep his voice firm and steady (and from bursting out laughing), ‘Trust me, Lothíriel, they are old men, and like all old men wanting to be relevant, they’ll want to waste some time discussing it before they agree. If I asked them to state the colour of the grass, they’d be unwilling to call it green until they’ve wasted a lifetime discussing it.’

Complimenting himself on his own joke, he could not suppress the chuckle any longer as he got up to walk over to her, but as he looked at his wife, expecting to see her join in with his amusement, he found only a shadow of doubt turning the blue of her eyes to steely grey. It was then and there that Éomer finally realised that she was not as joyful and excited as she should have been; instead she looked worried, ashamed even, as though she were a child that had done something wrong, fearful now of the coming judgement of the elder. Was it possible that no one had ever asked for her ideas before, that no one had ever listened?

‘You do not seem happy, my Lady, as you should be.’, he stated softly as he searched her gaze, not wanting to embarrass her further or even shaming her for her lack of happiness; he had learned by now that she was a delicate soul, and her manners prone to be offended by his apparent lack thereof. So he made an attempt at sensitivity, hoping she would feel comfortable enough in his presence to open up to him, and to his surprise, she did.

‘I fear it was not my place to speak in the council meeting today.’, she said quietly, almost in a whisper, not brave enough to meet his gaze, lest her fears would be confirmed, ‘The councilman – ’

‘Lord Braenn is an old, bitter grinch. Even when I was still a boy he was already old and withered, and even then he had never taken kindly to change, of whatever nature it might be.’, Éomer had spoken without thought, and in the silence that followed he noticed his wife looking at him with rapidly blinking eyes, and he realised the rudeness of him interrupting her ever so often and the shame of it made his ears burn with fire.

His mind raced with ideas of how to undo his blunder, of how best to comfort his young wife and queen in her miserable feeling, his eyes frantically searching to and fro. Looking down then, he only now became aware of their various state of undress: him in nothing but breeches and she in nothing but her shift, the flicker of the fire all but shining through her, and for a moment his mind conjured up images of other ways of how to take his wife’s mind off these troubling things – images that left him short of breath, but then again, it had been almost two weeks since he had last shared her bed.

Clearing his throat and shaking his head, Éomer sought to banish those thoughts from his mind by focusing on her misery and insecurity rather than his need for pleasure. His sister had advised him to take an interest in her emotional state, to support her, to be there for her, and he recalled his own realisation that a great king might be in need of a great queen but a queen could only be great if her king allowed her to become great. Thus taking his sister’s advise to heart he spoke again, and when he did his voice was laden with a gentleness and hoarseness that came from a wholly unknown emotion, but as he thought of his sister, perhaps not such an unknown emotion after all.

‘It is a good idea, Lothíriel.’

Hearing him say her name like that made her look up, and when she did she was met by a gaze so full of warmth and kindness it took her breath away. She swallowed hard and it took all her effort not to shy away from his piercing look, if in fact she even could have looked away. She felt her heart beat faster as she stared into those deep seas of green, and because she had no words to say, she only smiled, and though it was a weak smile and considerably small, it was yet an honest one, and that meant more to him than all flowery words and false confessions of love. Seeing her smile like that felt right and he wanted to capture that moment, never letting it go – his sister was right, that wife of his deserved to be happy and it was his duty to make it so.

For a long moment their eyes locked, and he was mesmerised by the yearning he saw swimming in those deep pools of blue – not the yearning a husband would have liked from his wife, but a yearning nonetheless, and at least she no longer looked at him with fear and suspicion. Drawn by that new emotion in her eyes, he felt instinctively pulled towards her, his body almost moving on its own, the muscles in his arms already flexing, an entirely new heat flushing his face. And then he remembered his sister’s other advise and his own clever idea of abstinence and just like that the heat from before turned to ice, and mortification drenched him in sweat.

Turning away and breaking off the eye contact, he swallowed hard, trying to cover up his emotional slip, and apparently his wife seemed to follow his example. Clearing his throat once again, Éomer king looked for anything and everything to distract himself from the tension between them and thus spoke again with regard to his utmost respect and gratitude for her abilities, ‘You did well today. From now on I would have you sit the council with me every day.’

For a moment she was too stunned to say anything, but then her shocked surprise slowly waned and she simply smiled, too flustered to find the right words, and nodded in thankful agreement, and in the silence of their chamber, she finally had the courage to take his hand in hers – after all, they were in this together – and in the warming light of the fire their fingers intertwined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUN FACT #1: I tried my best to not let the council meeting get too one-sided. Lothíriel's ideas are not without their faults and the councilmen have every right and duty to question it. But as this is Lothíriel's story I cannot deny that I wrote this scene as someone who is partial to my queen!
> 
> FUN FACT #2: The council meeting scene was the idea that encouraged me to write this story in the first place. It just popped in my head one day and I figured out the why's and how's as I was taking notes for this story for months and years.
> 
> FUN FACT #3: I'm a contradictory person. I like historical epics and Marvel movies and Mel Brooks movies just as much as I like Bollywood movies. I like playing the guitar and indoor-climbing just as much as I like writing and embroidery. I hate coffee. (=_=)
> 
> So what makes you a contradictory person? ;)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here I am back again, my guys, gals and non-binary pals!
> 
> See you next friday for the next chapter!
> 
> Enjoy reading and spread a little love by leaving a comment!
> 
> Oh, and BTW ... sorry in advance.

  1. **Drowning in despair and desir** **e**




The sun was shining furiously on this lovely late February morning, and yet the rays of light could not yet hold sway over the harsh cold of winter. In the Riddermark the summers were short but warm, spring times filled with the scents of a thousand flowers and trees, autumn days roughened by howling winds and the winters were biting, brisk and bleak. But despite the chilly air Lothíriel did not forgo her chance of a morning stroll down the streets of Edoras, walking all through New Town and ever down, past the _Runaway horse tavern_ in Auld Town and ever down, all the way through the gates of the city fortress.

After she had left the city behind her, she turned left, further down the hill and soon only the golden roof of the hall of Meduseld could be seen. With a sigh she came to a halt and let the satchel she had carried with her fall to the ground, closing her eyes and simply breathe in the cold morning air. The walk down had cost her some energy and she was out of breath, but she resisted the instinctive urge to peel off some layers of clothing; she would not make the mistake of underestimating the cold.

All round her the landscape was still covered in snow and she remembered how very alien and harsh the land had appeared to her when she had first come here. After all, she was a summer child that had only known the warm breeze of the Southern seas, the salty, fresh wind and the burning kiss of the sun as she lay on the beach, getting dry. In the first few weeks after she had come here she had constantly felt cold no matter how many pelts and cloaks and blankets she had put on or wrapped herself in, and she had not been able to image anything beautiful about this wild and harsh land that she could have loved. Especially the snow she had come to hate, but soon enough she had learned and forgot her disgust for snow, after all, it was only water turned to ice, and did she not love the Sea in whatever form it came to her? After all, what did they call her, when they whispered in the long halls and streets of Edoras: _Merides_ , _Sæides_ , the _Lady of the Seas_?

Sucking in the scent of fresh snow, Lothíriel opened her eyes, her gaze settling on the sight of the White Mountains in the far away distance, losing herself in her troubling thoughts, because it was neither the winter cold of her new home nor the summer heat of her old home that was currently on her mind. Thinking back on it now, she had been surprisingly naive to believe that all it took to solve the problems of the Riddermark was one little council meeting. Granted, her idea had been accepted at long last by the aldermen, and her king and husband had worked tirelessly to put it into practice, but the workings of power were slow, and the workings of agriculture were even slower, and slowest of all proved the trading relationships between North and South. Because while the late winter rainstorms of the South could prove treacherous, they really were no problem for the cunning mariners of Dol Amroth, which would mean a steady supply of grain for the people of the Riddermark, were it not for certain politicians straining the still shy and fragile new trading relationship with more demands than the councillors of her lord and king were willing to accept. It was a rippling effect of frustration escalating ego escalating frustration, and it were the common people that had to pay for it because the shipments of grain were not coming in as they had hoped, and it was hope itself that seemed to be failing more and more in the hearts of the people.

Of course, no one had said that being queen would be easy, but it was something else entirely to see this new-found weariness creep into the gazes of the people she now called her own; a new weariness, because now there had been hope for a change for the better, a hope that would be slowly but surely ground into dust. In a way, then, she could understand that this frustration would seek an easy outlet, and that for those wary Northerners foreigners proved to be the easiest targets, but still, it hurt – the disappointment of those that believed in her, the gloating of those that had expected her to fail; it hurt her more than she would have liked to admit. Especially now that they were getting personal in their attacks.

Sill fresh and raw in her thoughts was yesterday’s council meeting, though by now she had had quite a lot of them, and slowly she had got the hang of it – or so she had thought, but yesterday’s meeting had taught her how very wrong she had been to believe so. Not only were some members of the council still hesitant to fully commit to her proposal, but adding insult to injury she had also been most cruelly reminded that she herself had not been entirely accepted yet either.

‘ _My Queen, as … pleased as we are that you take your_ new _duties to heart, they mean little as long as you have not seen to your most important duty.’_

‘ _I’m afraid,_ _my_ _lord, I do not understand.’_

‘ _Do you not? Are you not a queen? Are you not a wife?_ _Let me speak plainly then: the House of Eorl is still without an heir. I do wonder: what good does a mare unfit for breeding?_ _’_

Lothíriel’s eyes snapped shut and she hissed at the pain the memory brought her, with her ears still ringing with the echo of the words of the councilman. She was glad she had been able to actually suppress her tears until she had been in the confines of her bedchamber, or else the added humiliation of publicly showing her distress would have been unbearable. She remembered well crying herself to sleep last night, and even her lord and husband must have noticed her weeping and sobs, or why else would he have shunned their bedchamber? _Was he disappointed with her too?_ , she though then, her heart clenching at the thought and she opened her eyes again only to feel the burning sting of fresh tears. It had been over two weeks since he had last lain with her – had he at last given up on her, disgusted by his barren wife? And – biting her lip so hard she could taste blood – she wondered then, _would it not be better if she just disappeared?_

With that single thought she felt her iron control slip and for a moment she allowed herself to break down as she sank down onto the snow, pulled her knees up to her chest and buried her face in her hands to hide her tears from the world. A great king was in need of a great queen, the old saying came to her mind again, but she thought bitterly, she was neither a good queen nor a good wife. She was just a foreign princess in a foreign land, a bartering tool in the hands of greater men, looked down upon by lesser men who thought themselves great, a little girl from the sea who held no power in the lands of men.

She felt her tears running hotly down her cheeks, and then freezing and turning to ice on her skin. No, she thought then suddenly, stubbornly, her sadness stilling instantly; water was powerful and came in many forms, and no matter which form it took, water remained powerful. _Rise with the tides_ , the little voice in her whispered again, and again she listened. And with that a sudden mad determination gripped her and put her into action: scrambling to her feet like a crazed woman, her feet ever so often sliding on the icy ground, her eyes frantically searching the area for what she had come here to find. A flower with petals of a violet colour whose shades grew ever dark until they met in a golden centre, a flower rumoured to possess powers of fertility. _But all the powers of a f_ _ertility plant would be fruitless if the field it was supposed to enrich was not_ _ploughed enough to ever bear anything at all._ For a moment she faltered then, but only for a moment. No, she thought desperately, shaking her head wildly, as long as she got that flower she could solve her problem, as long as she got with child everything would be alright.

All of the sudden then she heard a sound like the breaking of glass and she felt a shock of fear go through her body as the very ground beneath her feet seemed to vibrate, and even through the snow she saw a crack in the ice appear beneath her feet and then winding itself through the whole frozen surface like veins of white blood. _Would it not be better if she just disappeared?_ The hairs in the back of her neck stood up as the words of her sister-in-law came to her, describing to her the plains of the Mark like a sea of grass, as wide and far as the eye could see, a sea of grass which was ever so often interrupted by little pools of water, fed by the great streams from the north, pools that had little current but surprisingly great depth.

_O sweet Lord Ulmo, help me!_

_What should I do? What should I do? What should I do? What should I do? What should I do?_

The questions ran through her head, again and again, until the words started to blur and bleed into each other. Desperate ideas and plans rushed through her mind, one unlikelier than the other. _What if she ran?_ But no, she had no idea how far and wide this hidden pool was, and in her frantic search for the Alcea flower she had not watched the goings of her feet, nor could she gauge the size of the pool from the look and sound of the snow alone. If there was a different look or sound of snow upon a frozen water rather than solid ground, she could not tell – before she had come to the Mark she had never even before seen snow in her life. There was no telling if she was near or far from the edges of the pool and in any way, making a run for it might make the frozen surface break and shatter completely. _Would it not be better if she just disappeared?_

Perhaps, she thought desperately, if she reduced the weight on one spot and instead spread it more evenly, perhaps then she could crawl herself to safety – but when she moved to get on her belly another cracking sound and another split in the ice made her hesitate. _Would it not be better if she just disappeared?_ Looking up then towards the city of Edoras she knew the only chance she had was to cry out for help, hoping that anyone would hear her, but as she opened her mouth, taking in the air she needed to shout out loud, the ice beneath her broke.

The icy coldness of the water hit her so hard all air was sucked out of her lungs and she forgot how to breathe. _Would it not be better if she just disappeared?_ As she was rapidly pulled down by the underwater current, the weight of her heavy clothes only made it worse. Of course, she tried to fight her way back up to the surface, trying to remember how good a swimmer she was, trying to remember how often she had braced the salty might of the Sundering Sea and its waves, but she only felt the icy cold wrapping itself around her as her feet kicked and trod water, her muscles rocked by spasms, painfully trying to contract, to move, to swim. _Would it not be better if she just disappeared?_ Sinking deeper and deeper, the white of the lake's surface turned from white to grey and ever darker and darker, and then there was only the dark cold of nothingness all around her, and she had no more strength left to swim, no more air left to breathe, and no more hope left to fight, and so she gave in. _Rise with the tides_ , the little voice in her screamed, but she would hear it no longer. _Would it not be better if she just disappeared?_

* * *

Pulling at the reins with little force and a command in his own mother tongue, Éomer  king  made Firefoot, his prized steed and friend, slowly decrease his tempo, turning from gallop to canter to trot and then to a slow walking pace.  Leaning forward he patted Firefoot’s neck, grateful for the distraction his trusted steed had provided, and that had been much needed this morning.  Sitting back up, Éomer looked towards Edoras coming ever closer, and with a sigh he resigned himself, giving Firefoot a gentle nudge in the flanks and the stallion trotted onwards to the city in a quicker pace.

His mornings were usually reserved for a good ride, since the afternoons were too often now occupied with council meetings and the dreary and dry nature of ruling, but this morning he had more than ever needed to clear his mind – or rather to cool his head. A part of him was still fuming with fury from the last council meeting and the insinuation of the council member, Lord Braenn, and listening to his young wife cry herself to sleep last night had nearly broken him, even more so because he had not known how to comfort her, and so he had rather slept in the throne room of Meduseld to give her space rather than to intrude on her privacy. Or perhaps that had been wrong too.

Éomer knew it had been only a matter of time before gossip and accusations would be made, though it would be a difficult thing indeed to explain why his wife was innocent of the reason for her childlessness. It had been some two weeks now since he had last lain with his wife, and he had his sister to thank for that; whatever it had been that those two women had chatted about, he had been at the receiving end of it. All of the sudden, his sister tried to school him about things no sister should talk to her brother about, especially not an unwed, younger sister who should know nothing of men, and even less of what occurred between men and women in the night! But there she had been, nagging on and on, presuming to suggest things that belonged more to a brothel house, or a minstrel’s poetic seduction, than a political marriage bed.

It had been too much and in his overwhelmed mindset he had rather chosen to abstain from his more private rights as a husband – much to the confusion of his young wife. Indeed, it had not been long before she noticed the change in him. But truth be told, she had not been the only one confused. Nothing happened in Meduseld without the servants noticing it, gossiping about it – he was a King after all, and a King needed an heir, especially a King that was almost the last of his House and line. And he knew that such gossip was never far from his wife’s ears, and he knew of the pressure a woman in her situation would have to endure then. But it could not be helped, and he knew in his heart that it was neither his sister’s nagging nor the gossip nor the pressure that had him shun his marital duties, but rather something else. It was his wife.

Not that she was unpleasing – _Béma_! She was a woman unlike any other, and the very thought of her made his breeches tighten. No, it was rather her reaction to him. Her form shaking like a leaf in the wind, eyes the colour of the sea large with fear, and those plush lips – lips he so wished he could kiss – sealed tight in fright. He had hoped that once the initial hesitation and awkwardness had fallen off, she would be more open, more engaging, more _lively_. But still, every time he had come to her, rather than anything else, she had endured him – there was simply no other way to state it. Still, as bad as it was, it was nothing compared to their first night together.

_He could still see her before him, in all her naked glory, standing before the bed, head bowed in fear and shame, awaiting his command. He had not wanted to command her then, and he did not want to command her later, but it could not be helped. Although he had tried to speak to her softly, to guide her, he doubted not that his voice had sounded gruff and that his words had come off as an order. And although he could see how hesitant she was, how much effort it took, she had obliged without protest, and had silently slid into the bed._

_Lying there, staring at the ceiling of their marriage bed, she had almost looked like a doll – pretty but lifeless – and something in him had recoiled then at what he would have had to do. He had had no wish to force himself on her, but his or her say in the matter had been of little consequence. They had been wed, not for themselves but for their countries, for their people, for the peace, and something had to come out of it, and for that, their marriage had to be consummated – and though, waiting could have been a choice, it would have only meant to postpone the inevitable._

_In the back of his mind he knew, though, such sensible thoughts had not propelled him into action. He had wanted the woman in the bed, had wanted to make her his, to touch that raven hair and grip that arse, to cup her breasts and sink between those milky thighs. It would have been understandable for any man to feel aroused by such a sight and such imagination, and even though he was a king, was he not a man like any other? And thus he had climbed into the bed, climbed on top of her, to do what was expected of them both._

_She had hardly seemed to notice him, or rather she would not let him see it, still lying there motionless under him, her thighs pressed together, her hands at her sides balled into fists, and still she would not look at him. He had tried to make an effort – he had never been a lover, the experiences he had had, had been quick and wild and with women of other standing and other constitution – but he had tried to make an effort. He had tried to kiss her then – and judging from their kiss at their wedding ceremony, she had not been too appalled by his kissing – but she had turned her face away from him, evading his lips and rejecting the effort he made. Éomer had not tried to kiss her again, accepting her refusal, as was her right – they were husband and wife after all, not lovers, and for what they were expected to do, kissing was not necessary._

_With a sigh he had willed himself to go on, to ignore that they both seemed rather unwilling in this situation, remembering their duty. Moving back a little to kneel before her, he had used his hands to coax her legs open, and alone to feel the calloused skin of his palms against the soft flesh of her thighs had made him harden. A sharp intake of breath from his wife had been all the reaction he got from her, other than that her hands had been still at her sides, balled into fists so tightly her knuckles turned white and he had almost feared her fingers’ bones would crack under the pressure. Her face had been still turned away from him, looking at the wall; no, focusing on the stool he had left his clothes and sword on. For a second he had wondered then – after all, he did not know that wife of his at all – whether she thought to run him through with that sword after_ he _had run_ her _through?_

_Then, after he had made her open herself up to him, he had moved forward again, hovering above her, leaning on his strong arms, his hands placed next to her head, and now even she had been breathing hard, and it had been one of the few signs that this whole affair did not entirely pass her by untouched. She would not look at him, and he could not look at her as he came to her, and though her face had been turned away from him, he could yet see the different emotions that had flashed over it._

_First her brows had creased in confusion, then in discomfort, and when he had pushed past her barrier of resistance in one quick motion her eyes had snapped shut and her whole body had seemed to flinch. Her head had rolled back, and her face had been a mask of a pain as she had cried out then, and the sound had been piercing his very heart. Truly, he had had no experiences in taking a woman’s maidenhead. Instantly he had thought to remove himself and to leave it at that, but he had known how ridiculous the very idea was: what was done, was done, all he could do now was to see it through to the end. But that did not mean that he couldn’t spare a thought for her as well._

_Keeping himself still, he had waited for her to recover herself and to calm down, doubting not that half of the pain was mere shock. And as her breathing had slowed again, and feeling that her king and husband had halted in his actions, his young wife had opened her eyes then to face him. Her gaze had been dazed with wild questions, and some of them he could read so well:_ what is happening? What will happen? Is it done? Or will there be more pain until the end? _Éomer had wanted to explain it all to her, to still her fears, but he had never been a man good with words._

‘It’s alright. You will be alright.’

_It was all he could bring himself to say, and though the words seemed dull and uncouth, insufficient, it seemed to be all she needed to hear; immediately, the fear in her eyes had melted away with the first shock, and instead uncertainty took its place, unsure of what to expect next. And Éomer, feeling that this was at least a path that they could both follow, had held her gaze as he began to move again; slowly at first, tentatively even, trying to gauge her reaction, and with every soft push she had sucked in her breath, but now there was no pain haunting her eyes, and the realisation of it had seemed to dawn on her bit by bit._

_Of course, at that point Éomer had hoped she would respond to him the way women usually responded to his embrace, but she had seemed practically overwhelmed and fully occupied with the lack of pain, and even though he had tried to initiate more intimacy then, she had again turned her face away, and at that point he had simply accepted it and decided to make the best of the situation, now entirely focused on fulfilling his task: best to get it done quickly._

_Clearing his mind of all thoughts, Éomer had pushed on then, his eyes fixed on her exotic, raven hair more than on the rest of her, and though whenever he had felt her stiffen beneath him, he had slowed in his movements, trying to proceed gentler, he had seemed to heed the woman in his arms with little attention otherwise. Passionless he had gone on, moving forward with steady pace towards the finish line, barely aware of the almost quietly gasping woman under him, and truly he could have been alone, it would have been almost the same in that moment. And as he had spent himself in her then, with three, four more hard pushes that drew sharp intakes of breath from her, they had remained for a moment as they were. It was only then that she would truly look at him, and in her face he could see the innocent uncertainty from before. He had nodded then slowly with a grave motion of his head, and with an even graver mood he had removed himself then, earning him a last gasp of overwhelming surprise from her, before he went in search of a towel to soothe the possible pain and discomfort she might have come to feel._

Truly, their first night together had been not at all what he had planned or hoped for, but it could have been much worse – it was only unfortunate now that the nights that followed had not been much of an improvement. His young wife had remained motionless, passionless, lifeless for much of their encounters in their marriage bed; aside from the occasional gasp, and the lack of painful initiation, she was as she had been in their wedding night: hands balled to fists remaining at her sides, face turned away from him, eyes that did not see him.

After a while, Éomer had made his peace with it; and though his wife seemed unable to be roused to passion, he gave himself to his passions freely. She was a woman of great beauty after all, and she was his, and he had soon become comfortable in enjoying her as any husband would enjoy his wife. And though sometimes he seemed to break her composure with his forwardness and his means of seeking passion – having her hold his gaze or voice more than just gasps – he had arranged himself with the fact that while he was enjoying his wife in every way, she was merely enduring his nightly advances. That was not to say that he did not wish for more; _Béma_!, he could spend years imagining her responding to him, to have her lovely mouth coax and suck and bite, to have her arms hold him closer, spur him on, to have her thighs open up and swallow him whole …

Sudden erratic movement pulled Éomer out of his thoughts and daydreaming. The steed beneath him started to grow restless, pacing agitatedly to and from, throwing his head forth and back, starting to prance and rear, and soon enough Firefoot had thrown off his master. The King of the Riddermark landed ungently and inelegantly on the snow-covered ground, but he had to thank his years of fight training and the soft underground for a relatively safe landing as he rolled off into the snow and came to rest on his knees and hands. Shaking his head, recovering from the unceremonious fall, Éomer was about to shout at the horse for his lack of manners, but then again, it was his own fault – to think such thoughts on top of a stallion. No, he had only himself to blame for that, he scolded.

‘Very funny, you joker.’, the Horse-Lord spoke then with seething bite as he rose and moved to grab the reins, but the stallion became evermore agitated, stepping back, neighing wildly, whipping his head about, making it impossible for Éomer to get a proper hold of him.

‘Easy there, boy, what’s gotten into you?’, he asked quietly, trying to calm himself so some of his calm demeanour would ease the steed and help him to quieten down again. Slowly he drew nearer to his old friend and companion, making sure to avoid eye contact as he knew the confusion and frustration in his own eyes would only agitate the horse further. But when he finally caught the reins in his hand again, the stallion reared up, standing on its hind legs before he broke free of his grasp, turned on its heel and ran towards Edoras.

Éomer chuckled silently with bitter amusement at the picture of the Horse-Lord being thrown off his own horse and marching on foot back to his own throne room, as he started to jog lazily after Firefoot but he stopped dead in his track, dread creeping up his spine as he noticed the direction his steed was taking. Now he ran in earnest, and already he felt his breath go short, having spent too much time on the back of a horse.

‘Firefoot!’, he shouted with an emotion somewhere between anger and despair, ‘Get back here, you stupid old nag!’. But no matter what he shouted, the stallion would not listen to his master, and this was something that had never happened before. Out of breath Éomer arrived at the frozen lake, but it was already too late: Firefoot had already set foot on the dangerously thin ice, and his master dared not to follow him. With rising panic – and no small amount of confusion – he watched as his trusted steed took some ten steps onto the ice before sliding down onto his legs as though he wanted to take a nap right then and there on the ice but instead he shook his massive head and neck back and forth and with it the entire body of the animal edged forward until it stopped and simply bowed its head.

The whole situation seemed rather crazy, if not downright impossible, had it not been for the fact that it got even crazier, for as much as it would seem a mere case of a tamed stallion acting up, Éomer came to realise that there was indeed sense to this wild insanity, wondering not for the first time how much more intelligent the _Mearas_ were compared to lesser horses. Verily, as the steed bowed his head, the reins fell into a hole broken into the ice, and as he moved his head up again, the reins reappeared, and with it two hands gripping them, and then arms, a head, and there was Lothíriel – appearing from the icy water as though she was truly born of the Sea – and her small hands balled to fists never let go of the reins.

Éomer stood shell-shocked, watching horrified as the stallion slowly walked backwards, pulling the Queen with it, pulling her towards him, and only when the steed reached the edges of the frozen lake, did the King manage to force himself out of his stupor. Almost stumbling over his own feet in the freshly fallen snow, he slid down next to where his wife and queen lay, and at last her hands let go of their iron, desperate grip. The King searched her face for any sign of life, but by her pale white skin, her blueish lips, lips that did not part even for breathing, she seemed all but dead to the world, and to him.

For a split of a second only the King of the Mark fought with the realisation, and then he sprang into action. Like a madman he began his work of calling her back to life: he pressed onto her still chest with his huge palms, again and again, mimicking the rhythm her fluttering little heart should have, and then again he in turns pressed his mouth onto her ice cold lips to breathe some air back into her lungs, to breathe some life back into her limp and lifeless body. Éomer didn’t know how much time passed, time lost all meaning as he fought to bring her back, he fought and fought and fought, and it seemed that he was fighting a lost battle – but then she came back to life. With violent coughs and painful gasping she came back to life, spitting out water, sucking in air with the desperation of a dead woman clinging to life, and her eyes were wide and wild, filled with confusion and surprise, regret and shame – and then her eyes fell shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUN FACT #1: So, yeah, I said "Sorry", didn't I? Should've taken that serioulsy ... 0_0 Next time (because there will be a next time, believe me!), you will be more prepared.
> 
> FUN FACT #2: So, as a running gag with me and my writing, this chapter is also inspired by a real-life event. When I was little, and we had a terrible winter (like with snow and ice and the whole shebang - gee, climate change fucked up a lot ...), my dad - an alcoholic - decided to take my sister, my brother and me on a trip out on a frozen canal. Guess, who broke in? So, trust me when I tell you that even the best swimmers cannot swim properly in ice-cold water.
> 
> FUN FACT #3: There's no third fun fact this time, I've spoilt you rotten already. ;)


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, my dearies, I'm back with a new chapter!
> 
> Next chapter next friday!
> 
> Enjoy and spread a little love by leaving a comment!

  1. **Cruel to be kind**




In his life as a Marshall of the Mark Éomer had known some very hard and some very long rides. Once, as a freshly sworn-in member of an _éored_ , he had been forced to go on patrols in the West-march, an area that was frequently invaded by the Dunlendings, and on one such patrol both he and his mare had been wounded by their crude arrows – and as he had slowly bled out on top of the mare, he had felt the faithful beast beneath him slowly, painfully, loyally succumb to its wounds. Another time he had come across a herd of wild horses running around in the plains of the Westemnet and obsessed with taming one of them, he had managed to mount the stallion somehow but he had known the only way to truly tame the animal was to break its resisting will, and thus he had been forced to try and stay on top of the horse for as long as he could, and indeed, after a whole day and a whole night, he had succeeded in taming the beast, and Firefoot had been his most loyal friend ever since. Those two rides stood out among his memory as the worst rides in his life, and yet, they paled in comparison to the ride he faced now.

Riding back to Edoras, an endless stream of prayers – spoken not to the divine warrior-rider _Béma_ , but rather to his divine life-giving wife _Vána_ – rattling around in his head, Éomer held on to the reins with all his might, as the limp and lifeless body of his wife and queen slumped against him, her wet and ice-cold back pressed against him, chilling him to the bone, and again and again he put his hand before her nose and mouth to see if she was still breathing. When her eyes had fallen shut there at the frozen lake he had feared for a moment that she was truly gone, but her fluttering heartbeat and desperate breaths had told him that she was still alive and clinging to life with all she had, and thus he had wasted no second: he had put her on the horse, jumped on behind her and banged his heels into the flanks of his steed.

The great Gate came up before him and shouting from above told him that the guards had seen them coming and registered the gravity of the situation: the gate was pulled open and he rode through, never slowing down as he ascended the long-winding road that led up the slope to the Golden Hall of Meduseld. On his way up, more and more people noticed them and he could see the shock in their eyes, the way their hands clasped over their mouth, but he didn’t let it get to him – if he thought about what they might think seeing his wife like that, he would be lost.

When the Golden Hall came into view he started shouting towards the guards, barking orders to get the handmaids, to get a fire going, to gather blankets, and when he arrived at the steps to the longhouse at last, the place was in a complete uproar. Dismounting from the stallion, he turned around quickly and pulled his wife and queen off the steed and into his arms, and there she seemed to settle with the weight of the whole world. As he ascended the steps to the Golden Hall, his sister came running out, probably drawn by the commotion going on outside and inside, and when she set eyes on him, and what he carried in his arms, she paled and froze for a second – but only for a second.

‘ _Béma_! What happened?’, she called as she ran up to meet him half-way, all the while not taking her eyes off her sister-in-law and the picture of lifelessness she presented. Éomer didn’t answer at first, his thoughts too focused on getting the unconscious woman in his arms inside, and not wanting to waste his breath and strength on useless words. But then again, he could positively feel the anxiety of his sister radiating towards him, and he knew if he allowed himself to fall into despair, he would drown in it, to not reappear, and he would be of no use to his wife like that, none of them would. And thus he took a deep breath, as they passed through the long hall, leaving the huge hearth in the middle behind, and spoke, ‘I don’t know … she was in the lake – ’

‘The lake?! For how long?’, Éomer heard the despair and panic in her voice, but did not find the words to answer her, and so he only shook his head wildly as he kicked the door open that led to their chamber. He descended the steps to their bed and put her down gently, and as his sister busied herself with unfolding the myriads of blankets the handmaids had laid out and further stoking the already furiously burning fire, he looked at his wife, shivering in her drenched clothes, with her lips blue and her face paler than snow.

Éomer was trembling himself, his own clothes were soaked and he felt chilled to the bone, and he was breathing hard and flat, although he was not sure whether it really came from the cold and the effort of carrying her, or rather from the worry that slowly ate away at him. He refused to take his eyes off her, lest she would draw her last breath, and his voice sounded rough and hoarse when he spoke, strained, laden, panicked, ‘She must have broken through the ice – _Béma_ only knows what she was doing out there – I don’t know how long she has been in that water … she was not breathing when she was pulled out … ’

‘We need to get her out of these clothes – ’, his little sister cut him short unceremoniously, already jumping to the task while Éomer shook his head to clear his mind of all his dreadful fears before helping her as best as he could. But the King of the Mark had to suppress the shudders that came over him at the feeling of her cold skin or to keep himself from flinching whenever he felt the lifelessness of her flesh in his arms. Soon enough they had succeeded and wrapped her in warming blankets, rubbing her as best as they could but she was still shivering and her limbs still felt as cold and lifeless as before and Éowyn frowned, thinking hard.

‘Take off your clothes … ’

‘What?!’, Éomer froze and looked at his sister as though she had lost her mind, his eyes widened in confusion and shock, and he could see his own gaze mirrored in hers, although it was quickly overtaken by annoyance. She might have been complaining to him for weeks now how much she wanted to have nephews and nieces, to tell them of her triumph as a Shieldmaiden, but even she couldn't be so desperate to be an aunt as to take such desperate measures.

‘She needs warmth … body heat. Now, come on!’, the shieldmaiden spat back at him, and brought to reason by her words, he started to strip down. Turning around, he took his clothes off so quickly he nearly tore them off; first his leather belt along with his sword went to the floor, then boots and jerkin soon after. He was just removing his woollen tunic when he noticed his little sister loosening the laces at the back of her gown, about to strip out of her own clothes herself.

‘Éowyn, what are you doing?’

He had been staring at her for some long moments before she became aware of his terrified eyes upon her, and she recognised his stupefied expression, his mortified gaze only too well. He had asked as though he needed confirmation, or rather hoping she would belie his worst fear but in her impatience her answer sounded harsher than perhaps intended.

‘What does it look like, Éomer King? Now would you stop being a fool, if you please?’

After that, no more words passed between the two of them, and after they had stripped down completely, they laid down beside Lothíriel, huddling together for warmth under the many layers of blankets. Éomer lay behind his wife and Éowyn only shook her head over his starched attitude, of needing his wife's weakened body almost as a puffer between; as though she were a woman like any other. She was his sister and they had grown up together; it was not like he had never seen her naked before.

The woman between them was shaken by another heavy tremor and automatically both Éomer ended his thoughts of embarrassment and indecency as well as Éowyn ended her inner monologue at scoffing at her brother for his conservative sentiments and foolish feeling of embarrassment, and instead they moved closer together. Éowyn rubbed her sister-in-law's shoulders, her arms, her hands, trying to rub some heat into her limbs, while Éomer embraced her from behind, pressing his body to hers, completely engulfing her in the warmth of his arms. And together they worked to save the woman they both loved.

* * *

When Lothíriel had at last fallen asleep, drifting off into a seemingly peaceful unconsciousness of sleep, and they noticed her deep, relaxed breathing, Éomer and Éowyn finally allowed themselves to relax as well, sensing that the worst was over and that she would be fine. Brother and sister looked at each other across the frame of the sleeping woman they both so deeply cared for, and whispering, keeping their voices down so as not to wake her, they started to talk.

‘Now, what happened, Éomer?’

‘I told you, I don't know.’, he shot back quickly, not liking her accusatory tone, his voice barely more than a hiss as he went on, ‘The lake was frozen, and because of the heavy snowfall last night there was no way she could have seen – ’, he stopped suddenly with a loud curse, his sister reprimanding him to be quiet – and had she not been his sister, a woman raised among men, she would have blushed to hear such foul words.

‘ _Béma_! I just don't understand what she was doing out there!’

‘I do.’

Her answer was quiet, barely audible, but it was enough to pull Éomer out of his own thoughts and to focus at his sister. Her gaze had glazed over and she swallowed hard as though the guilt was choking her, and he listened quietly, intently, as she began to explain, ‘The book, the one you gave her … about herbs and mushrooms, berries and roots … the one about herblore – she told me about this rare flower, just yesterday, a flower that was supposed to be a fertility cure. I told her to look for it before the gates, I thought she knew about the frozen lake.’, she sighed bitterly, ‘Seems as though curiosity almost killed the cat, or should I rather say _swan_?’

For a long while then they were both quiet, lost in their thoughts and worries, and unspoken between them went the understanding that none of them was innocent of the whole affair, and yet, that no one was truly to blame – it was simply a cruel slide of the game of life, pushing their pawns to rash decisions with lasting consequences. Would it have changed much, had Lothíriel never read those books? Would it have changed much, had Éowyn not given her that well-meant but blunt advice? Would it have changed much, had Éomer not chosen to shun his wife over the lack of equal passion? Would it have changed much, had the myriads of prying ears not chosen to speak with accusing tones and pointed with malicious glee? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Perhaps everyone was a little bit to blame, perhaps no one was to blame. They would never know, all they had was an answer to a thousand questions they didn’t know one of them was asking in secret.

‘I should never have given her those books – ’, Éomer had been quiet for a while, and in that time he had come to his own conclusions, and bitterness and regret ate away at him slowly but surely, leaving him to look for a simple solution to a complicated problem. But his sister had never allowed him before to seek the simple solution, and she wasn’t prepare to back down now.

‘Now, you listen to me, King of horse droppings! You will not go and blame yourself for trying to make her happy, are we understood?’

‘If I had not given her those stupid books – ’, the King of the Mark tried to argue but the shieldmaiden would have none of it and cut him short, as she was wont to do.

‘If you had not given her these books, she might have done something really stupid!’, for a moment, both were too shocked to find words, and when the sleeping woman between them stirred, troubled by the loud voices raised around her, both brother and sister turned their thoughts to her, calming her with soothing words and caresses back into a deep sleep.

‘You mean – are you saying this was no accident?’, Éomer at last brought himself to say, his voice strained with an emotion his sister couldn’t quite place, his eyes lingering a little too long on the shape of his wife, his gaze a little too soft, and Éowyn’s heart broke at his stubbornness, his refusal to admit that he was in love, and the hurt and confusion in his eyes was almost too much to bear for her, and thus she found it hard to speak, but she had to speak all the same.

‘I don’t know, I can’t be sure – but, Éomer, she probably knew how to swim before she could even walk. What do you think?’, Éowyn spoke quietly, as if the silence would swallow the sad truth of her question, but it didn’t, and she could see the realisation hitting her brother all at once, his face scrunching up in pain, and yet there was defiance still, as he shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut, refusing to accept it, and thus she started again, not willing to allow him to retreat into his refusal once more, not willing to allow walls to hide painful truths and blossoming feelings any longer. Too much hurt had already happened because of it.

‘Oh, brother, are you blind? Have you not seen how unhappy she has been these past weeks? Have you not noticed how very much alone she is?’, the shieldmaiden asked quickly, her questions a series of stabs and slashes, and she could see that each and everyone hit its target, as her brother and king frowned deeply, his mouth a line so thin and sharp she could have cut herself at it, but she knew it was not enough to make him think in order for him to understand, she needed to make him feel, and so she chose her next words carefully, intentionally, ‘Brother, don’t you remember our mother? She died of a lonely heart – would you have your wife suffer the same fate?’

‘That’s not the – she has you – ’, Éomer protested immediately, shell-shocked and infuriated by his sister daring to bring up the sad fate of their mother, resisting the very idea of it, and the very thought pained him, and even more so was he frightened by the idea that his wife should yearn for him that way, or that he would feel such horror at losing her like that. No, he thought, shaking his head wildly, no, they were partners, this was a political marriage, there was no place for her longing in this union, there was no place for his concern in this union – this was never how things were supposed to be. Everything was supposed to be so easy, and now all was muddled, complicated by these feelings.

‘She is a stranger in a strange land, Éomer, she has no one. Her home, her friends, everything that has been dear to her, everything she has known, is _gone_.’, Éowyn interrupted him, trying to make him see, trying to make him understand what had pained her to watch for weeks now, and as she looked at her brother she could see that he could hardly bear the accusation in her eyes, and had she been a kinder woman, she would have stopped then and there, but sometimes you just had to be cruel to be kind, ‘Yes, she is alone, and the one person who is supposed to be there for her spends his precious days attending council meetings and playing around with his horse – ’

‘I am still King, Éowyn, don't you think I have some duties to attend to?’

‘Oh, spare me your self-pity and excuses! You seem to have enough time to attend to some marital duties, and you seem to enjoy them well enough, too – or at least, you did; word has it, not any more?’, she countered with a snarl, and in their anger, brother and sister had always been well matched, and not even a crown or a betrothal would ever soften those hard edges in their character, ‘What about her?! What about her pleasure, her enjoyment? Have you learned nothing worthwhile in your man-whoring?! ’

‘Watch your mouth! Have you forgotten who you're talking to? I am still your Lord and King.’, Éomer spat back then, feeling the anger rise in him, feeling himself unable to take any more of her accusations and blame, even more so because he knew her words to speak the truth, and to hear it stated like that, without any excuse, without any context to soften it, well, it tore his guts out, and as he so often did, in his pain and sorrow, he resorted to anger, to push people away, ‘This is a private matter between me and my wife. Keep out of it, Éowyn!’

‘To hell with your _Lord-and-King_!’, she hissed through clenched teeth, trying to keep her voice down, despite her seething rage, as her green eyes – so much like her brothers – fixed him with a deadly glare, ‘I happen to care about her, I happen to care whether she is happy or not – ’, and then she paused again, to regain her composure as he had thought, but instead she closed in for the kill, ‘Now, what about you, Éomer? Do you care? Do you care at all?’

For a moment, he wanted to explode again, to rage and shout, to deny it with every fibre of his being, to say that he felt nothing, even if only to spite his intrusive sister, but instead he swallowed his anger, fearing to wake Lothíriel in her much needed state of sleep, and as he watched her lying there in his arms, he knew he could not deny his feelings, even if he wanted to. After all, was it not said that the Rohirrim did not lie and therefore were not easily deceived? He had been lying to himself for far too long, deceiving himself – but no longer, no, no longer.

‘Of course, I care about her.’

For a moment Éowyn was too surprised to speak, all her usual sharp wit and blunt speech stunted. She had always known her brother to fight and struggle, his smiles as grim as his mood, seeing life as nothing but a bitter obligation somewhere between duty and honour, and always expecting others to share his bleak outlook on life – she had never before seen her brother admit defeat. But here and now – in the way his eyes softened as he looked at his wife, the way his voice grew small, tender even – he had given up at last, at last he had given in. It was a touching thing to behold, humbling even, to see a life-long warrior fall in love.

‘Then why do I not see it?’, she spoke then, softly, swallowing hard, fighting to keep her own emotions in check, ‘ _Why_ do you not let _her_ see it?’

‘I’m trying … ’

‘You’re not doing enough!’, she countered then will all of her force, despite her better judgement, her gentle intentions, despite the sleeping woman between them, and seeing him wince at her words, she knew that at last he was truly ready to listen, ‘Oh, Éomer, do you not know your wife at all? Have you never wondered about her shyness, around you, around men in general? Have you never noticed how terrified she is around horses?’

Of course, he had noticed her reserved behaviour, the way she stiffened whenever she was in the company of men, the way her face turned to stone whenever he returned from one of his morning rides – naturally, he had assumed that she was uncomfortable in the company of men because they were councillors (and councilmen were particularly singular people), and that she made a face because he thought the stench of horse particularly repulsive to her sensitive Southern manners. Of course, he had wondered if there had been more to it, but he had never had the courage or the insensitivity to ask her about it.

‘Your wife is unhappy, alone, afraid, even if she won't let you see it.’, at her words, the king looked to his wife again, watching her sleep in peace, the tragedy of an hour before a mere shadow of a memory, and in that moment he knew that his sister’s words rang true. Lothíriel had always tried to hide her embarrassment from him, her discomfort, so why not also the sadness and loneliness she must have felt and endured in quiet all these weeks and months? Did she think to spare him the burden of her sadness? To keep him from blaming himself? Or perhaps she thought he wouldn’t even care? And that thought pained him most of all, that she would think herself so insignificant to him – and to think of her sweet, melancholy compassion and care for his thoughts and well-being, always, always, put before her own needs, it moved something in his heart that could now never be unmoved.

‘Talk to her, brother. Listen to her. Spend some time with her.’, he heard his sister speak, but only faintly, although he were in a dream, and she speaking through a wall of mist, but he heard her all the same, ‘Look at her, and really see her. _Touch_ her, for _Béma’s_ sake, make her happy! And not just as a wife, as a woman. You owe her that at least.’, the king nodded slowly, watching his wife with tender eyes, not prepared to leave her out of his sight again, as his sister spoke on, and she knew, having known her brother since birth, that he was truly listening now, and would never again forget her words, ‘When I am gone, you might just be all she has left – do make sure that is enough.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUN FACT #1: This week's been hell at work. Working overtime and even students there to teach!
> 
> FUN FACT #2: I just can't resist having Éowyn nag at her brother! It's just so much fun! Cruel to be kind, indeed.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my lovelies!
> 
> Next chapter next friday!
> 
> Enjoy reading and spread a little love by leaving a comment!

  1. **The Shadow of War**




The woman in the bed shivered and sighed lightly, her forehead etched in worries that were not real, talking in her sleep in all the different tongues she knew, talking to shapes in her dreams; she tossed and turned in the great bed, but she did not wake, and Éomer king sighed as he watched her with his own troubled thoughts. Éowyn had left a while ago, retreating to her own bedchamber, now that Lothíriel was sound asleep, hoping to find some sleep of her own. But Éomer could not find sleep, even though the darkness outside the windows told him of the night that slowly wore on, and even though he was tired and exhausted beyond compare.

Slouching in a chair next to the bed, one leg propped up on the mattress, the king fought with his fatigue, fighting to keep his eyes open, as he watched his wife in her troubled sleep, cautious of every twitch and sound, as though fearing it would be her last. In his lap, almost forgotten, lay the book that had caused such trouble, and he had spent some minutes perusing in it, until at last he had come upon the Alcea flower, a flower said to possess potent fertility powers. Upon seeing the image of that treacherous flower there on the yellowed pages, he had lost it then, burying his face in his hands and for a moment allowing the tears to flow the world was not permitted to see. Then and there he had allowed himself to wallow in his own shame and misery, but only for a moment and that had been hours ago.

Now Éomer king sat comfortably in that chair next to the bed, looking at his wife with watchful eyes, refusing to leave her bedside, and when she at last stirred to awaken, her blue eyes slowly, hesitantly opening, he was the first thing they saw, and Éomer silently thanked the gods for this second chance. Lothíriel looked at him for a moment with those deep, calm eyes, as though she had to learn to remember him, as though she had to learn to remember everything, and then she sighed deeply, as though everything were coming back to her now.

‘How are you feeling?’, her king asked her then, leaning forward slowly, and for a moment it seemed as though he were to take her fragile hands in his but then he refrained, and not knowing what else to do with his large paws of hands, he simply folded them in his lap – all this power in his hands and yet nothing he could do with it. Lothíriel could see the worry in his tired eyes, could see the worry etched in deep lines into his forehead and she wanted nothing more than to smooth out the lines of worries cut into his forehead by her own actions. But she knew she could not.

‘I'm fine, I think.’, she said at last, as it was all she could say, trying to offer a small smile, hoping it would ease some of his concerns but it did not, though he could not but be moved by her attempt at reassuring him. She really had to think that he saw her as nothing but a nuisance, and in that moment he wanted nothing more than to shout at her, demanding answers to his questions, or to take her into his arms and never let go of her, to keep her from ever trying to leave him again, or to shower her with kisses to really show her that he truly cared for her. But he did none of these things. He knew it would only confuse her, terrify her; he knew she was not used to these intense shows of emotions and he knew he was not the man to make them.

‘What do you remember?’, he spoke once more then, to break the silence that always seemed to stretch out between them, to say something, anything at all, and to her have answer and say anything at all – to remind him that she was truly still alive. It may be said that seeing was believing, but for all he knew she could be nothing but a figment of his wishful imagination, better to have her speaking to confirm that she was still truly among the living. But then again, perhaps he was also imagining her words, perhaps she was still at the black bottom of the lake, and him with her. Shaking his head then, horrified by his own rampant desperation, Éomer pulled himself out of this increasingly maddening stream of thoughts, and instead forced himself to focus on his wife and queen speaking.

‘ … the sound of the ice breaking beneath my feet, and I remember the coldness of the water. I was pulled under so quickly … I sank into the darkness … until you pulled me out – ’

‘Firefoot saved you. He pulled you out of the lake.’, Éomer had spoken on mere instinct here; listening to her describe her close encounter with death itself was harder than he had anticipated and so he had jumped at the slightest chance to interrupt her without _rudely interrupting_ her. However, perhaps even his subtleties were too blunt for this Southern princess as she tightened her jaws and thinned her lips, apparently in open contempt to his lack of manners. But then he became aware of how her face had blanched, how her eyes were wide with fear – _she was scared_. Not of her close encounter with death, mind you, nor the cold; she was shaken by fear by the very mention of the word _horse_ – and just like that his sister’s words came back to him, with a might that chilled him to the very bone, but as it so often did, fear for him was usually fought with fury, and this time would be no different. Before he would have simply ignored her reaction out of politeness or even sensitivity but they were beyond polite sensitivity now – they had faced death together, and now they would face life together.

‘Lothíriel, why are you so afraid of horses? Why are you afraid of – ’, he asked quietly, almost too quietly, and for a moment he feared she hadn’t heard him. _Why are you so afraid of me?_ , he would have almost added, but he had stopped himself short of it – once a question was asked, it could never be taken back, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for the answer yet. For a moment, as he looked at her, he wasn’t sure whether she would respond or simply evade his questioning, as she so often had done in the past, but to his surprise her forehead creased in hesitation made way to a deep sigh of resignation.

‘You really wish to know, my Lord?’, she asked then with another defeated sigh, eyes cast down, head bowed almost in shame, and for a moment Éomer hesitated, for as much as he wanted to know, he didn’t want it to cause her any feelings of hurt or shame. So the mighty Lord of the Mark bit his lips, torn between his desire to know and his desire to protect, but in the end, it was his curiosity, his need to finally know, that won out at last, and so he nodded with the determination of an explorer daring to brace the unknown dangers that may lurk ahead.

‘I was in Minas Tirith when the city lay under siege. My father had not wanted me to go; he said it was not safe, but in this war nowhere was safe. I worked in the Houses of Healing and tended to the weak and wounded. I might never have wielded a sword nor swung an axe or strung a bow but I have still fought in this war; I fought illness, injury and death – and I have seen the face of war, and it is an ugly grimace.’

The king was taken aback, to say the least. He had expected much and more, but never would he have expected for her story to start then and there at the worst days of the Greatest City of Men. Of course, he had known her to be a healer, Éowyn had told him often enough, and her handmaidens had spoken about it more often that he would have liked, but he had believed it to be a nice pretty little hobby as most nice pretty little ladies had, something to pass the time, a flight of fancy to brighten the boredom of the luxurious aristocratic lifestyle. Never would he have believed it to be a real calling for her, a calling that would call her to the most dangerous place at the most dangerous time, and the king realised how little he truly knew about his queen.

‘My late uncle Denethor, the Steward of Gondor, he … he was very sick; it was a sickness of the mind. My father angered him by misspeaking himself, and thus, out of ill will he denied me entrance into the White Tower. However, the city was full and overcrowded with the weak and ill, the dead and desperate; there was simply no place for me to go, and so, my friends and I had no other choice but to seek refuge at the stables. It was hardly worthy of a princess but it was warm and dry, and, by _Ulmo_ , in those days that counted more than all the riches and jewellery of the world.’,

She made a little pause here before she continued, as though she were looking for the right words to continue, and it was good that she paused, because her king needed more than a moment to stomach the image of her sleeping in a stable. It was hard indeed to bring in line the image of the frightened woman before him with a princess in fine linens between the straws and dung of a stable. Had the situation been any lighter he would have broken out in roaring laughter.

‘The fire broke out in the third night of the siege, and I still can't remember what woke me: the smoke or the screeching of the horses?’, Lothíriel continued meanwhile, unaware of his thoughts, calling him back to her sombre reality, and she was breathing harder now, her voice shaking ever so slightly, and Éomer realised that she was arriving at the key point of her story, ‘All around me the city was on fire; colours of silver and white and marble swallowed by colours of red and orange. I was looking for my friends but I couldn't find them; it was only later that I would find out what had happened to them. It was in this moment that I heard it; that sound, that terrible sound – and then I saw it. The horse was coming towards me: _it was on fire_. Red foam at its mouth, mane aflame, and its cries of pain sounded more human than anything else that night. It was in pain, it was afraid, panicking, and it was coming towards me; I knew it would not stop, and yet I could not move.’

And just like that the dam broke: slow, quiet tears came and went without almost a sob. For a moment Éomer debated whether or not to take her hand and to give what little comfort he could give, but in the end he didn’t do it. He didn’t know how long she had been holding on to this pain and sorrow without telling a soul of it, perhaps she had never before allowed herself to feel all of it; so, no, she was allowed to feel that sadness for her herself, and he wouldn’t be the one to take that away from her. To be confronted with such an image, a dying animal in desperate fury, well, it was enough to traumatise even the most seasoned of warrior, and he remembered well, after his mare had bled out under him all those years ago, it had taken him a while too before he had been able to ride a horse again without feeling his chest tighten in melancholy. And to be ridden down by a panicked beast like that – well, if it didn’t kill you, it was sure enough to traumatise you for the rest of your life.

‘I awoke three days later to a new world. The war was over, and peace had come almost over night; but not all was well, and there were many dead and wounded to be grieved. No war is won without sacrifices, after all, and my friends and I, we had come to the city in spite of the full knowledge of the peril and the pain and suffering at our enemies' hands. Yet bitter was the realisation that a woman has many a foe to fear in war.’

Éomer had been surprised when she continued, thinking that all of the story had already been told, but he was chilled by the tone her voice carried now. Gone were the sobs and tears from before, gone was the small voice of a frightened girl, instead her voice was hard and cold as steel, full of a bitterness and a hatred he would never have believed her to be capable of.

‘I went looking for my friends … and found their bodies in the privy of a shabby tavern; tossed-away, broken, dishonoured. It didn't take much to figure out what had happened. The night the fire broke out my friends must have come from their shifts, and in their panic they must've sought refuge at that inn. Usually they would never have entered this tavern, we knew well enough to shun this place; it was a shabby spot inhabited by even shabbier creatures.’

She paused once more to take a deep breath, but when she continued there was no struggle, no bite, not even hatred in her voice, instead she was calm, eerily calm and detached, almost inhumanly so, ‘They made a game out of it, and at some point it went out of control. But two dead bodies more or less, what's the difference? We were at war.’

And then she laughed, she actually laughed; but it wasn’t the sound of mirth and merry humour, it was cold and bitter, joyless, heartless, and the sound pierced his very heart like a series of slashes, and Éomer, seasoned warrior of a hundred battles, actually twitched back from it, disturbed, and when she spoke once more there was this hard, steely voice again that belied her fragile appearance, ‘When I brought their bodies back to their families, I told them what they needed to hear to be able to grieve; the truth, however, was a completely different matter.’

When she paused this time, however, there was none of that cruel laughter, instead she bowed her heard in a sign of defeat, as though all struggle had left her body, as though telling it all had drained all the power she had left, and when she spoke again, her voice sounded weak and broken, strained with emotion, ‘Back then, I could not understand why these things had been done, or why these crimes would go unpunished, even unspoken of. I remember when I asked my father about it, he would not look me in the eye. He told me that there was a time and place for justice, that there was a time and place for honour. But he said that this was not the time for it. This was to be a time of peace, of reconciliation and rebuilding – where heroes would be sung of and old wounds would be healed, and no one wanted to know that even some of our heroes had done terrible things. No one wanted to hear the words of a frightened little princess.’

For a long, long time she was silent then, as though her tale of woe was over, and yet there was more to be told, and though it seemed more than he could bear, Éomer forced himself to listen, reminding himself that she deserved that at least, to be heard, to be listened to, for it would seem that few people had ever done that, ‘After that terrible awakening I was consumed by fear and my ghosts and memories haunted me. Whenever I tried to approach a horse, I would smell burnt flesh and hear those terrible cries. Whenever I passed by other men, I would see nothing but the beasts that had savaged my friends. The world had been saved, my Lord, but not for me.’, swallowing hard, she ended her story with a heartbreaking snivelling sound, and when she looked up at him with fresh tears in her ears, it was the gaze of a person who had lost all hope in the goodness in this world, ‘Does this answer your question, my Lord?’

And Éomer felt his heart break, and unable to speak, he stayed silent. What was there to say? What words could he simply say that would encompass all the ways in which he felt for her in that moment? There was pity and compassion, but also anger; anger over the betrayal she had faced by the people closest to her, by the people she had trusted; anger over the pain and sorrow she had had to face all on her own; anger over the injustice of this world; and lastly, anger over his own powerlessness to do any damn thing about it.

It was no comfort knowing she had been hurting long before she had been thrust into his life, but knowing that with all her sadness and her fears she had been given to a man who for her must have seemed like the embodiment of all her trauma, well, it made him desperate with anger, because anger had always been a much easier emotion for him than sadness – sadness was passive, with anger you could act. Yes, he could feel it now boiling in his blood, this rage of a hundred battles, this righteous wrath that he desperately wanted to unleash now. He wanted to ride down this enemy he couldn’t see, thrust his sword deep into the neck of this foe he couldn’t even begin to comprehend – but he knew that wouldn’t change anything. There was no one for him to fight, no evil for him to kill, no foe for him to strike down; he was useless to her, a raging warrior that for all his strength and courage was powerless to do a damn thing for her. What good was his anger for her? It wouldn’t do a damn thing. And the despair he felt over that realisation nearly broke him.

Éomer didn’t know how long he had stayed quiet, how long he had been silently wallowing in his own misery, anger and shame, when, suddenly, he felt a hand take his, and then another one, and just like that she held his hand, and his hand looked so huge and crude in her small, fragile hands, so out of place, as if he could crush her with a single stroke. It was just so like her, for her to reach out and wanting to comfort him, when really it should have been him comforting her. And as he looked at that image of their hands entwined, his big paw of a hand littered with little subtle scars of years and years of sword training and battle, and her little white hands unmarked by all the horrors she had seen, all the disappointments she had faced, all the pains she had endured, it reminded him that not all scars could be seen with the naked eye, some scars were buried on the inside, and those were much harder to heal.

A touch brought him back then, pulling him out of his miserable thoughts, and he shivered at that touch. Her finger subconsciously traced the lines of scars engraved into his palm, as though she was seeing them for the first time, as though she had never noticed before how stained his hands were compared to her marble skin, as though she couldn’t see how imperfect he was compared to her. He was no good to her, and he was not good for her, he was only a big, uncivilised warrior-king who knew only how to kill and destroy, how to rage, how to fight; he knew little of compassion and comfort, and he knew nothing of love.

He wished he had never met her; he wished she had never been given to him, at least then she would have been living in peace at her home, at least in contentment, if not in happiness – but what happiness could he ever hope to offer her? And wasn’t that the thought that infuriated him the most? That for all his rage at the unhappiness she had had to face, he had not been innocent of that unhappiness, or at least, he had done next to nothing to turn her unhappiness into happiness.

And just like that his sister’s words were coming back to him, haunting him, taunting him with the knowledge that whatever tragic path unhappiness had compelled her take that hour on the frozen lake, he’d had some part in it – no matter what his sister insisted. Yes, in a way, he was as much to blame for this tragedy as the men who had attacked and murdered her friends, or as her father who had ignored her pains and fears, or those councilmen who had blamed her for things she deserved no blame for, or that _stupid_ _fucking_ _book_ – that fucking book he had given her, and with his stupid attempt at salvaging some solace (if not happiness) for her in this grim life he had forced her in, he had ruined it all, even more so than it already was.

And wasn’t that the worst of it? Knowing that in some part he had been responsible for whatever decision she had made down in that water – but, no, that was not the worst of it. The worst thing was that she didn’t blame him, not even after everything that had been done to her, after everything he unwittingly must have done, after everything he had failed to do; and yet, never had there been blame in her gaze, only compassion, only ever compassion. Yes, that was the worst of it, that was the very worst of it. And Éomer so wished for her to cry and lash out, to beat him senseless with those pretty little fists, to blame him, accuse him, to state the truth he had come to see in all of this, to do anything but hide her own pain and comfort him. If she said it, if she blamed him, he thought, at least then he could absolve himself of some of his guilt, at least then he would no longer have to feel guilty for receiving her undeserved compassion, for allowing himself to buy into her charade of the strong princess handling everything so well, for allowing her to think it was her duty not to burden him with her true feelings, her pains and fears.

‘Lothíriel, why did you not try to swim?’, he asked quietly then, remembering well his sister’s words, and, truth to be told, he was not careful in his phrasing here; he was direct, almost to the point of tactlessness. Perhaps he had thought that he could simply jump on a running horse, so to speak; that she would be more open about today’s tragedy now after already opening up about her past tragedies, but once more, he had underestimated her upbringing, her training; she was all princess here and she would not lose her composure so easily, and thus, as she spoke, a sharp intake of breath was all the emotion she offered, ‘I did, my lord.’

‘Why did you not _try_ _harder_?’, he started once more, determined not to give up this time, not to give in so easily, as he normally would have done, not to back down and allow her to retreat into that shell she had built around her inner self. And now her walls seemed to crumble as her hands began to shake, and even as she tried to pull them away, he held onto them, not letting her go, not allowing her to retreat, not this time, not anymore. Her voice shook as well as she tried to speak, as she tried to plead with him in more than just words to not inquire further, ‘I-’

‘Please, don’t lie to me.’, he countered quickly, cutting her short, realising her futile attempt at hiding behind that mask before she even had time to fully phrase it, ‘It’s not going to work. And it would only insult me.’

And then at last she looked up, and in her gaze he could read the shock of a person who had been figured out, and with eyes wide in surprise and shame she carried the look of a person whose tricks and guises had all been seen through. And so naked to his scrutinising gaze, she felt herself blush with embarrassment at having been caught, and for that she gave him credit. She had always thought that because the Rohirrim were said to never lie, it would make them easier to be lied to, but perhaps their words rang true here as well, that they were not so easily deceived.

And she wondered then: how long had he been seeing through her deception? Had he known from the very beginning what it looked like in her heart? Unbidden all the moments came rushing back to her, all the moments when she had tried to hide her inner self from him, moments of false smiles when she had wanted to cry, moments of silence when she had wanted to speak and shout and scream, moments of submission when she had wanted to defy, moments of closeness when she had wanted distance, and moments of distance when she had wanted closeness. She had been a fool to believe she could learn to know him without being known in return, she had been a fool to believe she could open his soul and still hide her own, she had been a fool to believe she could change him without being changed in return. With a sigh she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath before looking up again, at last to speak the truth, after all, what use was there in lying to him anyway? She wouldn’t be able to deceive him, or herself, and she didn’t have the energy to do it anymore anyway, ‘My Lord, I did try to swim, I swear it, it’s just after what was said yesterday in the council meeting – I thought, I thought … ’.

Éomer watched her as she trailed off, choked up, head bowed in shame as though she was fearful of his reaction but he didn’t need to hear her say it to know what she had wanted to say: that she was of no use to anyone, that they were better off without her, that no one would miss her – and the very thought of it broke his heart with such pain and anger, he could scarcely breathe. He wanted to tell her that she was needed, that she was wanted – that _he_ needed her, that _he_ wanted her, that _he_ would miss her, that he could no longer live without her, that he would not leave her alone with this anymore, that she could trust me, that he would trust her …

_Béma_ , he wanted to say it all, but the words just wouldn’t come out, as much as he wanted them to. He had never been a man of many words, but he had been a man of action, and so instead he took her little face in his hands, keeping her from looking away, needing her to understand this, and as his green eyes bored themselves into the deep pools of her blue eyes, gazing past her facade of princess and queen, past her all too human insecurities and fears, he made a promise to her that had nothing to do with the duty that bound them in marriage and politics, and had everything to do with the deeply fierce trust and intimate connection between two people on the very cusp of something like love, ‘You are my Queen, Lothíriel, my wife – and I would have no other beside me.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUN FACT #1: So, at long last, the cat is out of the bag, and we know the cause of Lothíriel's PTSD. I'm curious - are you satisfied with that explanation or do you feel let down?
> 
> FUN FACT #2: The Alcea flower is not really a fertility increasing plant; however, in the Victorian era, in the language of flowers, it's meant to represent fertility - and somehow, that's kinda the point here, innit? Lothíriel trying to solve a problem with a superficial solution. Well, that backfired, but, perhaps, she got a solution for her problem out of all that mess anyway ... just not the one she had hoped for ...


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my dearies! Hope the weather is treating you well? I'm currently freezing my ass off. Winter has co - ... wait, wrong franchise.
> 
> Thanks, ya'll for the support and reviews and all the love!
> 
> Next chapter next friday!
> 
> Enjoy and spread a little love by leaving a comment!

  1. **The Horse-Queen**




It was late in the evening and in the hearth a warming fire roared, illuminating the bedchamber, showing the scenery of a sea of cushions and blankets covering the floor in front of the fire place, and in the midst of it all there were the King and Queen of the Mark. Éomer was leaning back on a bolster pillow, in his lap he worked away at sharpening his famed sword _Gúthwine_ ; while one of his legs was propped up, the other was lazily stretched out, and it was just far enough stretched out to almost touch the naked foot of his wife and queen who sat in the ocean of cushions opposite him. Lothíriel was playing gingerly but fairly with the dwarf-sized harp she had brought from her home with her and that she had recently taken up playing again. The melody she played was unfamiliar to him, but he liked the sound of it, and the way she quietly hummed to the tune, he liked that too.

Looking up every now and again, _Béma_ , he saw even more of what he liked: his young wife only clad in a thin night shift under a woollen dressing gown, black hair loose and free, legs used to prop up the heavy harp, having the shift slip up those long legs, revealing more of her skin than she would think acceptable, but by the dreamy expression of her closed eyes and half-opened mouth, one could tell, she was so lost in her place of music that for once she didn’t seem to care for propriety. Swallowing hard, Éomer eyed her with a gaze that spelled out as much tenderness as it spelled out hunger, and the sword he had sharpened (more as an act of distraction) lay all but forgotten in his lap, as he found himself increasingly jealous of the harp, imagining to trade places with the musical instrument.

‘Éomer.’

Her voice had been quiet, soft even, but it had been enough to pull him out of his dangerous thoughts, and, blinking, he looked at her with eyes that saw and were no longer lost in daydreaming. But by the way she had lowered her head and her gaze, the way her cheeks flushed in the prettiest pink, embarrassment colouring her face, he believed for a moment that she had guessed his very thoughts. After all, was it not said that Elvish blood bore Elvish gifts, and by her beauty no one could dispute that distant Elvish ancestry in her blood – but no, he reminded himself while shaking his head wildly in order to return to reality, she was as little capable of reading his thoughts as he was capable of reading hers, or else his wife would have run from him and his hungry thoughts a long time ago.

Éomer was now looking at her, really looking at her, and he realised now that it wasn’t so much embarrassment that was rendering her timid as it was insecurity and self-doubt, and he wondered what it was that she wanted of him. He knew it had to be important for she seldom addressed him in such familiar terms, and even after three months of marriage he was still “my Lord” to her. But she had spoken his name now, and therefore he listened attentively.

‘Éomer, I want to learn to ride again.’, she said then, after taking a deep breath, and her voice had been so quiet and so shaky that, for a moment, he believed to have misheard her, and so he sat up to get a better picture of her bearing, but when she finally looked up, the plea unmistakable in her eyes, he knew that she had spoken in earnest and that there could be no mistaking her intent. Swallowing hard the king thought for a moment, as he remembered well the story of her traumatic experiences in war and the ramifications it had forced on her.

Ever since she had told her story he had been plagued with thoughts and visions imagining the horrors of her experiences; Lothíriel who had worked day and night as a healer in the besieged city; Lothíriel who had been forced to sleep in the stables like a commoner, uncared for, unprotected; Lothíriel who had only barely escaped the tragically violent fate of her friends; Lothíriel who had been run down by a crazed horse in its death struggle. For a few days it had been all he could see whenever he had looked at her, and it had infuriated him; and even now, now that he had managed to banish those thoughts from his mind most of the time, it still enraged him to think of the danger she had been put in, the violence she had faced, the pain and terror she had endured and the brutal tragedy she had only been spared by a cruel twist of fate.

All of this and more went through his head as he looked at her with deep thoughtful eyes, and the fragile hope in her gaze was enough to break the heart of even the most fearsome of warriors or grimmest of kings – but Éomer had quickly realised in the time he had been married that when it came to his wife he was neither a fearsome warrior nor a grim king, but nothing but a man in love. The thought of denying her request crossed his mind, again and again; the thought of rejecting her plea in order to spare her the feeling of shame if she failed, or even worse, the reliving of a nightmarish trauma she still fought to overcome. But then again, denying her request also meant to see that painful image of dashed hopes and inadequacy flash across her beautiful face, and he knew himself well enough to know that he couldn’t bear that, and thus his words were careful, sympathetic, but clear nonetheless.

‘Is that wise, Lothíriel? I thought you feared horses.’

In a way she reacted exactly how he had expected, exactly how he had feared, with disappointment, with insecurity, shame even, but to his surprise she didn’t back down as easily or quickly as she would have done undoubtedly in the past; she was changed, it was only unclear how exactly and to what extent, ‘I am the wife of the King of Rohan. I am Queen to a people who praise horses more than anything else in their lives. How could they ever respect me if I cannot even sit a horse?’, she added with a voice strained with an unknown emotion, but he knew it to be the burning feeling of yearning to be respected, the cold chill of feeling inadequate, without her having to say the words she really wanted to say: _How could you ever look at me?_

Éomer closed his eyes, painfully regretting his words, painfully regretting not having foreseen her need for acceptance, painfully empathising with her need for approval. With his arms propped up on his elbows, he wrung his hands not knowing what to do or what to say to her. He could understand her doubts, indeed, he could understand them very well; the dread of inadequacy had followed him around ever since he had been declared king, and it had not lessened, quite on the contrary, it had gnawed away more and more of his confidence over time. After all, he knew he was no king material; he knew how to sit a horse, he know to fight and how to lead men into battle, but he knew little and less about how to lead a country, how to lead his people into a golden future. He doubted not that if there had been a better option for a king, his people would have chosen it, but, alas, they were stuck with him, so all he could do now was his damned best.

But that wasn’t what he wished for her; and even though he could understand her need so very well, and even though he knew that in a way she was right, that indeed his people would never fully accept a woman incapable of embracing their most basic cultural tradition, he was unwilling to acknowledge this reality. He knew if he acknowledged her doubts, if he acknowledged the doubts of his people, it would break her, and it was only a few weeks ago since he had almost lost her, and he had come to realise that he could not bear that. So, where did that leave them? Where did that leave him? It left him with no choice but to move forward.

‘Lothíriel, you don't have to prove anything, the least to me …’, he spoke quietly then, but he looked up as he said it, his eyes searching for hers to make sure she heard this, to make sure she really understood it, that she felt that he truly meant it. And he reached out, wanting to take her hand in his, because her brows were still creased in confusion and her forehead still marked with lines of disbelief, but he really didn’t know her well enough yet to understand where her confusion came from or where her disbelief pointed to.

‘Yes, I do.’, she simply said, voice barely more than a whisper but firmer than steel in her resolve, and as she pulled her hand away, out of his reach, eyes hardening with a confidence he had rarely seen from her, and he could see it written so clearly in her eyes then, that iron determination, befitting more a Northern queen than a Southern princess. _I have to prove this to myself._ But of course, that was not what she said, even if it was what her gaze all but screamed at him, but she was still too caught up in the confinements of her upbringing to be so open about something so personal, and it was the very frustration she felt over that, that made her voice harden, her volume rise and her words lose all their polite reservation. _Rise with the tides_ , the new voice inside her reminded, and the only thing she needed to do, was to respond in kind, ‘I want to learn it! I will learn it. And if you’re not going to help me, then I’ll find someone else who will – so stop trying to talk me out of it!’

It took them both a few heartbeats to fully comprehend the gravity of what had just happened, but when they did, the overwhelming feeling of shocked surprise was palpable. With regard to her, Lothíriel slapped her hands across her mouth, staring at him in wide-eyed horror, mortified by her own surprisingly reckless temper, terrified of his reaction. But with regard to him, Éomer _was_ taken by surprise, and he was also shocked, but then again, he had never before seen her act or speak so rashly or with so much passion before, so atypical for that little wife of his, and yet he found that he liked it. And thus, when she lowered her head and lowered her eyes, fearful of his reaction, fearful of this anger she had already seen, her king surprised her as he so often did – he simply _laughed_ ; not the false laughter of the Southern courtiers, not the revolting, ale-infested roaring of some drunk soldiers irritating everybody around, but simply the free and heartfelt laughter of a man amused with his wife.

Looking up, confused by the unexpected sound, Lothíriel blinked at him with big, perplexed eyes as he simply leaned back onto the bolster pillow, arms behind his head, the picture of someone entirely comfortable in a situation. And when at last his roaring laughter had subsided and turned to a gentle smile instead, he closed his eyes, knowing perfectly well that his wife was still waiting for the judgement to come, or for his behaviour to make any damn sense, and even if he gleefully enjoyed her confusion, he also didn’t want to torture her with waiting any more than she already had, and so he simply said smiling, ‘Then I will teach you, my Queen.’

And as he watched his wife turn her attention back to the harp in her lap, playing leisurely again, Éomer smiled, more to himself than for her, although he wasn’t exactly sure what he was smiling about. Perhaps it was the unexpected outburst of emotion she had just shown that still amused him or perhaps it was the fact that even after all this time, she was still able to surprise him, and herself for that matter. He had thought he knew her so well, that he had already seen all of her, but perhaps, he was only just beginning to peek behind the mask she had so carefully worn since he had met her, allowing him to see what was underneath the image of the poised princess she had clung to all her life. Whatever it was, Éomer decided that he liked it, that he could hardly wait for more.

In the last few weeks the two of them had got to know each other, more deeply, more intimately. Sometimes they had spent hours discussing the trade plans she had initiated or she would tell him of the exact ingredients of a potion meant to heal the gout or would read to him from the books he had given her or tell stories of her homeland, while he tried to explain to her how a sword blow from above could never be parried well from below or what the exact advantages and disadvantages of a bridle with a bit were. They also talked of their childhood, how he had always wanted to follow in his father’s footsteps and how proud he had been to become the Third Marshall of the Mark, just like his father. And she, she would tell him of her exploits as a sailor when she had been little, how she had commanded her little sailing boat together with her brother Amrothos, through sun and rain, bracing the wrath of the waves.

The very idea of it conjured up images in his mind and he had to smile once more, but this time the smile was of a different nature. To imagine her now, as she was, in her silken night shift under a woollen dressing gown, commanding her sailing boat, pulling at the ropes, steering the rudder, it brought up other images in his mind, images that left him breathless, and, again, he was reminded that while husband and wife had come closer, they were still not truly close as husband and wife.

Éomer knew he had followed his sister’s advise in all its facets, save one. It had been more than a month now since he had last come to his wife’s bed; too great was the dread of watching her endure his advances with those sad, understanding eyes, too great was the pain it would cause him now to cause her pain. Of course, that didn’t mean that there had been no intimacy between them, though he did not doubt it meant something different to her than it did to him.

Little moments of everyday life, little touches that became a daily routine. In the evening when she would help him remove his boots, in the morning when he would help her lace up her gowns, or fingers that touched during dinners when plates were exchanged, her hair that he loved to brush (and sometimes he even allowed her to brush his own hair); at night, in bed, when her body sought his for warmth and she was too sleepy already to be aware of it, at night, when nightmares drove them into each other’s arms, the songs on her lips the only thing that could chase the haunting memories away; or the rare hugs she gave when she was excited, or even the light brushes of her lips on his cheek when she thanked him for something he had done. They were a thousand touches and one, with a thousand meanings to her, but with only one meaning to him: the sweetest torture of the most pleasurable kind.

For days now he had fought with the impulse to tell her how he felt, only to decide against it, only to decide that it would be useless. Of course, he knew that his wife was capable of love, it was merely unclear whether she was capable of loving him. After all, he had never given her much cause to love him. It was true that he had never been cruel to her, but none of his actions could inspire much love in any woman’s heart either: he hadn’t cared for her, seen her merely as a curiosity, a means to an end – he had never cared enough to win the affections of the woman inside of her, so why should he hope for it now? Of course, he had tried, but it was too little and too late.

But for all this rationalisation, it would not and could not change the achings of his own heart or the hunger he felt for those desires to be reciprocated by her, and so he suffered in silence, starving for her innocent affections. Yes, indeed it was torture for him; all those little touches, warm gestures and smiles, eyes that shone bright with kindness – but, sadly, only with kindness, for it would seem that his wife, though no longer afraid of him or distant, saw nothing but a friend in him, and not a husband in the meaningful sense of the word. In the beginning of their relationship he had craved nothing but a good basis for a political marriage, he thought bitterly, and now it would seem that his wish would come true.

And then at last, he was smiling no longer.

As he watched her play with the harp in her lap, eyes closed in appreciation of the music, losing herself in it once more, delicate fingers gently pulling the strings, eliciting soothing sounds, like drops of rain falling softly to the ground, he swallowed hard. He felt as though the musical drops of rain were the depths of his feelings slowly but surely wearing him down, and there would be no saving for him, no shelter from this storm, he was lost, completely and utterly and irrevocably. He had been a fool – a fool to think that he could become intimate with another person without becoming close to that person, a fool to think that he could care for a person without starting to care too much, a fool to think that he could love another person without despairing over the desire to be loved in return.

It was fairly simple: he was fucked – _royally_ fucked, if he may add, he was a king after all – and not just him, because it was one thing for him, as the love-stricken fool that he was, to accept the bittersweet crumbs of affection she was able to give, but it was something else entirely for his kingdom. Because while he as a husband may love his wife enough to be willing to put her needs before his, he was still a king and the needs of his kingdom would not submit so easily to his love for his wife – and the truth was, a king was in need of an heir or else the kingdom may fall apart, so what happened to a kingdom whose king was too much in love with his queen to force her to love him and to come to his bed?

* * *

The sun was shining almost furiously on this particular late March afternoon, as though it tried to make up for the unusually long and harsh winter the lands had just suffered through and now wanted to remind each and every creature that crawled, slithered, flew or walked that spring at last had come to the Riddermark. The air was filled, it seemed, with the scent of a thousand flowers and the sounds of a hundred birds, merrily chirping their songs to the sun, as Lothíriel slowly but surely wound her way down the King’s Road through Edoras. As she passed through _New Town_ and _Auld Town_ , leaving behind the _Aethelmund tavern_ and the market, she greeted many of her people, some of them curtseying and bowing, others greeting her with well-meant wishes or even compliments for her new attire, some trying to entice her with richly-spun wool or gold-shining honey and mead.

However, even as she smiled and nodded, awarding each and everyone with the proper attention they deserved, she did not let it keep her from descending down the sloping road, always her goal in mind. But she would be lying if she said that she wasn’t tempted by their well-meaning offers and their kindness – not even three months ago she would not have believed to ever walk among these people and be seen as more than a stranger with strange looks and strange customs – and to bask in the amount of acceptance and respect they showed her.

Who wouldn’t be?

But as tempting as it was, she had not left the Golden Hall of Meduseld today to play the Horse-Queen. No, indeed; as she fumbled around with her clothes – woollen stockings under a wide riding skirt, woollen tunic under a leather vest and a leather jerkin, all in varying degrees of green and brown and black, all topped off with some black leather boots, a woollen shawl, riding gloves and a leather belt adorned with a silver buckle in the shape of a horse’s head – social mingling and representation had not been the reason she had left the comfortable warmth of the hearth or the amusement of her books behind, and though she felt slightly out of her comfort zone with her clothes, she soldiered on relentlessly.

Éowyn had laid out the clothes for her when she had told her sister-in-law of her idea to get back into the habit of riding again, and, unsurprisingly, the shieldmaiden had been _thrilled_. Without much further ado Éowyn had offered to give her some riding attire of her own, however, when Lothíriel had inspected the choice of dress her sister-in-law had in mind (trousers, trousers, trousers!), she had politely asked for a more moderate choice of clothes – and thus she had ended up with her new less than formal yet still decently proper attire. Of course, in the South ladies had riding attire, too, but witnessing the shieldmaiden’s frowns regarding her mentioning of a side saddle, Lothíriel had quickly realised that none of her own riding clothes would do for a ride astride. Yes, things were very different around here.

Lothíriel had just passed the stone well before the tavern when the stables came into sight, and with it, Éomer, and she saw right away that he – like her – had decided to take the day off from all things considered royal. Clad not in his usual light armour but in woollen trousers, simple boots and a linen long-sleeved shirt under a warmer short-sleeved tunic, all held together by a leather belt with his sword hanging by his side, he seemed not like a king but like a simple man momentarily free of all burdens, with only the simple tasks of a common stableman on his mind, and for a moment, she allowed herself to simply watch him.

He had not seen her yet and thus carried on in his tasks unaware of her gazing. He had his sleeves rolled up as he took the bundles of straw to the stables, scattering them for the dozens of horses standing in their stalls, merrily chomping at the yellow meal, and she could tell by the way the muscles in his arms danced or by the way his face was flushed from exertion that he had been working here for a while now. Lothíriel knew that she should be ashamed of herself for staring at him so openly, but she could not help it: watching him work away in the March afternoon sun, seeing him move in his element, completely at peace, completely comfortable, dressed not as the grim warrior but simply as a man of strength and kindness, well, it made something strange flutter in her stomach, and she could not look away.

All of the sudden, however, she was torn out of her daydreaming and ogling when she heard her name being called, and jumping back to reality she saw her lord and husband wave to her, calling her name, and when she didn’t wave back or walk over to him, he simply jogged up the hill towards her. Feeling herself blush bright-red, she was horrified for a moment that he would immediately pick up the indecent reasons for her flush, but perhaps he only thought it to be her nerves bothering her, and he wouldn’t have been so wrong about that either. She was nervous; to be perfectly frank, she was _scared_ – talking about it, preparing for it, anticipating it, well, that had been one thing, but seeing the horses shake their manes and scrape the floor with their hooves, just seeing them, that was quite another thing, and she swallowed hard to keep her panic at bay.

But when he reached her and greeted her, she only smiled, albeit a little shakily; and when he commented on the good weather for their ride, she simply nodded, not trusting her voice to resemble anything befitting a queen. But she realised as he continued to do small-talk that he was trying to make an effort, perhaps trying to ease her slowly into the task ahead; and although he was terrible at this polite small-talk, he gave his best and she gave him credit for that: he even commended her on her riding attire, although she suspected that Éowyn might have told him to do that, but she could see that he was making a genuine effort nonetheless.

Indeed, she could tell that he _did_ _like_ her in these informal clothes; she could see it in his eyes lingering on her hair, which she kept in an unusually loose braid, and on the leather belt around her middle, the one with the silver horse’s head for a buckle, and she understood immediately why his green eyes softened especially at her wearing that piece. It had been an heirloom of his family – she believed to remember that it had belonged to his mother – and Éowyn had given it to her as a wedding gift; and this was the first time she ever wore it. The warm smile he gave her as he met her gaze was enough to make her heart flutter in her chest, although she didn’t yet understand why.

‘Shall we?’, he said then, his voice forcibly light but she could sense the tension underneath, reminiscent of a person who would do or say something, _anything_ , just to say or do anything other than uselessly standing around, not knowing what else to do. But Lothíriel smiled, knowing that he made an effort, her own panic retreating a little bit just at the thought of that, and she nodded as she took his arm that he held out to her, and thus they started to walk.

‘So, I just wanted to say how very grateful I am for this, my Lord. I do consider it a great honour to be taught by the Horse-Lord himself.’, she started chattering away as they slowly descended the hill towards the stables, and it was a comforting thing, meant to take her mind off her worries and fears, trying to help her relax by distracting herself with mindless pleasantries. And perhaps her king was more perceptive in that regard than she had ever given him credit for, or perhaps he was just as much in need of distraction as she was; whatever the reason, Éomer eagerly leapt at the opportunity her banter presented, ‘Well, my queen commanded me to find a suitable teacher, so I did.’

‘Please, don’t remind me of that.’, she pleaded as she first tensed and then seemingly slumped in her walking, her eyes closing with a frown and a sound of utter embarrassment rumbling low in her throat ‘I’m still mortified at how I spoke to you last week.’

But Éomer only laughed, although it was unclear whether he laughed about her feisty attitude last week or her squirming over her painfully embarrassed reaction to the mere mention of it; but whatever reason he may have for his mirth, she was glad for it, even if it were at her expense – it was good to see him laughing, ‘Don’t be. I’m used to a woman ordering me about.’

‘Really?’, she asked, unbelieving, full of the good-humoured scepticism and penchant for teasing only her brother Amrothos had ever brought out in her before, and he only winked at her with a cheeky smile, ‘Oh yes, I grew up with Éowyn.’

The laughter that followed lasted but a few moments, the last carefree moments that had distracted her, leaving her unawares of the speed by which her feet carried her, highly aware instead of his arm that led her forward, but by then the stables loomed big and ominous before them, and Lothíriel remembered then. Instantly her laughed ceased and her whole body tensed, her breathing became shallow, uneven, and as her heels dug themselves into the ground and her whole body tensed, her fingers clenching at his arm, and then even the king noticed the change in her.

Analysing her with a quick look, noticing her rigid posture, her clenched jawline, her widened blue eyes trained on the wooden structure before them, Éomer remained calm. Slowly untangling her hands from his arm, the king instead took her right hand in his, his fingers gently squeezing hers, and when he felt her respond in kind, he knew that despite her panic-frozen state she was still aware of him, she was still with him, and he could work with that.

‘Lothíriel, I want you to listen to me, I want you to listen to my voice. I am with you, do you understand?’, he spoke quietly but with a steady tone, deep and calm, and when she nodded slowly, he proceeded carefully, leading her along, trying to ease her into their undertaking, ‘Good, very good. Now, close your eyes – tell me what do you hear?’

_Screams. Shrieks._ _Hooves prancing frantically on marble stones._ ‘Neighing. Snorting. Horses chomping at the bit.’

‘Very good. And what can you smell?’

_Smoke. Blood. Dirt and faeces and panic._ ‘Straw. Dung. The smell of horses.’

‘Good. Now, Lothíriel, remember: there is no danger here; you know these sounds and these smells, you know them, you know what they mean, they are familiar to you, and what you know you need not fear.’, his voice was steady and strong, like the drumming beat of the waves lapping onto the shores, and she held on to that thought, and to his hand, her connection to that shred of sanity her panicked memories tried to gnaw and claw at, ‘Remember those sounds and smells, Lothíriel, hold on to it.’

Somewhere in the far away back of her mind she registered that her feet were moving, that his hand clasping hers was pulling her gently along, that he was taking her with him, but she kept her eyes shut, not trusting her fragile courage not to falter at what her eyes might see, not trusting that her nerves wouldn’t crack and fail at the image of horses upon horses upon horses. So instead, she trusted her other senses to guide her along, for her ears to take in the familiar sounds – the first crunch of the straw under the heel of her boots, the sound of a tail whipping through the air, chasing the buzzing flies away – or for her nose to take in the familiar scents – the faint smell of manure under the overlaying smell of sweat. By the time he spoke once more, she knew she was already in the stables, already surrounded by horses in their boxes on all sides, but she kept her eyes closed and her heart steadfast in her trust, her hand steadfast in his.

‘Very good, Lothíriel. Now – reach out; slowly, let him come to you.’

She did as she was told, barely even thinking about it, her left hand reaching out into the air, while her other hand squeezed his, and then she just waited. She heard the sound of a horse whickering, snorting, hooves scraping over straw-covered ground, felt a wet hot breath tickling her fingertips, and then her hand touched flesh – warm and taut and soft, and it moved. The breath she had not known she had held broke free in a deep sigh that was as much relieve and excitement as it was joy, and her blue eyes sprang open to behold a new world.

Before her in a box stood a mighty steed with a dark grey hide, growing lighter and lighter towards the head, and its mane was golden like his master’s and his eyes kind; and although only a shoulder-high gate was separating them, for the first time Lothíriel felt no fear, and that was the most surprising thing yet. She had thought she would be terrified (and she had been before), paralysed, sent spiralling back into old fears; but now she felt only at ease, light even, as though the weight of another world, of another lifetime, had been lifted off her shoulders.

‘Very good, Lothíriel, yes, let him get the scent of you.’, she heard her lord and husband say, and his voice came to her almost as though she were within a dream, but she nodded nonetheless, and complied. Her hand touched the steed’s nostrils and again she could feel its hot wet breath licking at her fingers, remembering somewhere in the back of her mind the importance of scent for animals. She smiled then, more to herself than for the world, as the mighty steed sniffed her fingers and then proceeded to dart out its thick tongue, scraping across her fingertips, tickling her. Animals truly were a marvel, she mused, being able to tell so much with something so little as a whiff of scent, and within in a heartbeat they could easily tell friend from foe, sense danger or opportunity – they were superior to humans in that regard, humans who were so easily deceived, so easily beguiled …

‘Good, very good. He seems to like you.’, she heard her king say then and his voice tore her out of her thoughts which had become rather sombre at the end, and she welcomed the chance to return to the happier, simpler moment of the present. Stealing a quick glance over to her husband, and seeing him smile so brightly as he patted the steed before them, she knew that it was not only the horse that had taken a liking to her, but its master also. In that moment she was sure he would do anything and everything to make her happy and it made her heart ache with the knowledge how much he truly cared for her, even more so because she knew not if she could ever feel for him the same way he so obviously felt for her. That was not to say that Lothíriel felt indifferent to her husband, but she had simply spent too much time forbidding herself the very idea of love that the feelings she now had she could not have named had her life depended on it.

‘His name’s Firefoot. He’s been my friend for many years now.’, Éomer chimed in then, feeling her gaze on him, and whatever he saw in her eyes quickly prompted him to break the silence that stretched out between them, to say anything and nothing at all to not give too much space between this undefined thing between them, ‘You two have met before, actually ...’

‘Yes, I know, I remember.’, she answered quickly then, a little bit too quickly, she thought, as she beheld her husband’s darkening gaze out of the corners of her eyes, and for a moment she felt a pang of guilt, though she was not sure whether the guilt was linked to the mere reminder of that tragic day on the ice or whether the guilt ate away at her for having put her good and kind husband through that painful ordeal in the first place. In that moment, her throat felt tight with all the words she wanted to say to make it better, to relieve the pain she knew he still felt whenever he was reminded of it (and she didn’t fool herself, she knew he thought often and more about it, even if he tried to hide it from her), but she knew that there was nothing she could say to make it so. And so she simply said nothing, because there was simply nothing she could say.

Éomer sighed, his gaze softening for a moment, before he ducked under the gate and entered Firefoot’s box, intent on making himself useful as he gave his wife the time she needed to reacquaint herself with the company of a horse, though he could not help stealing a glance or two at her out of the corners of his eyes from time to time. Lothíriel, turning back to the horse that eyed her with the innocent look of a curious beast, stroked its head and its mane with gentle hands, marvelling at its beauty, completely oblivious to him, or the stench of the stables around them or the world outside these four wooden walls.

In some way Éomer was strangely relieved that her attention seemed solely captured by his horse, and he pushed the little sting of jealousy out of his head, and to be perfectly honest he was surprised to seeing her taking so quickly to the company of horses again. A part of him had actually feared this day and this confrontation, feared that she would scream and cry and roll together in a tight ball of fears and nightmares and would never unwind again, but instead he found her opening up as easily as a flower in spring, yearning for the first rays of the sun.

‘ _Mae govannen_ , _mellon-n_ _în_. _Annon allen_.’, he heard her whisper from the front of the stall then, and looking up from his business of preparing the saddle, he watched mesmerised as she actually dipped her head in reverence and then to his infinite surprise, Firefoot, his mighty steed, friend of a hundred battles, companion of a thousand hard rides, brother of a life as a warrior, appeared to lower his head too, as though to bow and respond to her gesture in kind. Had he blinked, he would have missed it, and he wasn’t too sure entirely if it really had happened, but then again, he remembered, _Elvish blood bore Elvish gifts_ , and no beast as yet could have ever withstood the sweet tongue of the Elves. Éomer sighed, shaking his head; perhaps he should not be so quick or so vain as to believe that her quick recovery was his doing alone, perhaps all she had needed was to be reminded that there was good in this world, that innocence need not be a fault and that beauty was something to be revered rather than possessed.

‘If you like you can also feed him.’, he threw in as he strapped the saddle onto Firefoot’s back, jerking his head in the direction of a bucket full of carrots, turnips and corn, and by the look of her eyes brightening up and her smile widening, it was clear that she needn’t be told twice. And thus while he tied down the saddle, securing everything in its place, the air was accompanied by a constant stream of words and whispers while she fed the steed carrot after carrot from her own hand. Some of it he even understood, but most of it was some form of Elvish and thus indecipherable to him. He couldn’t remember having ever heard her talk this much, not even during their hours and hours of planning the trading business or even their evening chats in front of the fireplace, and it reminded him once more, painfully, how little he truly knew of his wife, and that there had been a whole other life she had lived before she had come to him.

Shaking those thoughts off his mind he moved towards her to put the final touches to Firefoot in preparation for the ride-out, and with shy smiles and whispered apologies they danced around each other for a moment as he worked to tie the bridle onto the head of his steed. Lothíriel continued to make cooing, soothing noises and sounds in all the languages she knew – and it was almost outlandish how much she had already gained his own horse’s favour in so short a time, going so far that his own steed seemed a little unwilling to let him fasten the bridle if that meant any disruption of his interaction with the Horse-Queen before him. But he managed in the end, he was a Horse-Lord after all, and in more than just the name.

‘Alright, we’re all set now.’, Éomer said then at last with a sigh as he leant against the gate lazily, smiling at her as he patted Firefoot’s side appreciatively, ‘Let’s get you up on that horse.’

In that moment, the king might as well have asked his queen to perform a handstand whilst naked, because from one second to the next her eyes went wide and she stood all but frozen with fear, looking at him with what seemed like a mixture of sheer terror and vulnerable embarrassment. Swallowing hard, he could see it took her more than moment to recover, and when she spoke there was disbelief in her voice as well as no little amount of trepidation, ‘Y-you mean – are you saying – I’m supposed to ride already? Today? _Now_?!’

‘Of course: learning by doing.’, Éomer said teasingly, and he had to keep himself from bursting out laughing at the way her eyebrows jumped up in shocked realisation, ‘Why else did you put on that fancy riding outfit if not for riding?’, he proceeded to wink at her and pushed himself off the gate to give her room enough to enter the stall, provoking her to take the bait, to forget for once that she need not be a lady with him. But the king had forgotten that he was talking to his queen.

Lothíriel scoffed at him, clearly taken aback by his teasing and his bait, and she swallowed hard to not retort in kind with words not so gentle, words that might not befit a lady or a queen. _Why did_ _you_ _put on this fancy riding outfit if not riding?_ , she imitated his voice mockingly in her head. Well, even the fanciest, most practical riding attire need not mean its wearer would ride, just like any lordling might wear the best armour and still have no intention of ever fighting. Like most things in the life she had known in the South, it was done for show – a show of strength, of power, of control; and like most times, a show was only ever a show, and if you dared to peak behind the curtain, well, there would be nothing to be found.

All of this and more went through her head as she watched her lord and husband wink at her with a smug smile, baiting her. In a way, his behaviour was a show too, an act to lure her into the stall, because she knew very well that for all his teasing he was genuine in his belief for her – for him, his smug show was just an act, but there was truth behind it. The only question was now: was her show just an act too, a riding attire meant for representation, or would there be some truth too behind her act, some genuine intentions that would turn to genuine actions?

Lothíriel gave her answer in a deep sigh that seemed to come from the very depth of the sea as she gathered her skirts, ducked under the gate and entered the box in one swift, elegant movement. And as she planted herself in front of him then, chin held high and arms akimbo, as if to prove her aloofness and superiority, despite looking utterly ridiculous in her fancy clothes amidst the straw and dung of the stables, he could not help it then and so he simply burst out laughing, laughing so hard his sides hurt, laughing as he had not done in years. But he caught himself quickly, he was a king after all, and even managed a bow to apologise for his indelicate laughter, though his queen did seem to take it quite well, and he even thought he might have seen her smile a little too.

‘Okay, enough funny business for now. You go up first.’

‘First? You mean – I’m going to ride _with_ you? Like, on the _same_ horse?’

‘Well, yes.’, Éomer answered, taken aback by her utter disbelief, her apparent squeamishness, and he crossed his arms before his chest. He wondered whether she was going to question and oppose everything he told her to do, and his growing impatience was tugging at his calm and ease, making his words sound less supportive than he may have intended to, ‘Forgive me, Lothíriel, but I won’t let you ride on your own until I know for sure you can handle it. So?’

Lothíriel twitched back at the brusque manner of his answering, but perhaps it were only her sensitivities that perceived his manners as brusque, although it would be difficult to explain her reason for coyness without making herself a target for yet another jovial comment about the (perceived) pompously delicate Southern propriety. Because while it may invite ridicule, it was indeed considered very improper. In the South she would be allowed to ride side-saddle with a man riding beside her or a man leading the reins, but man and woman on the very same horse, their bodies rubbing together with a beast underneath?! Well, it was outrageous, if not scandalous! But then again, he was her lord and husband, so there was no room for scandals or for her to deny his order. And so she sighed and simply nodded.

Lothíriel, turning to the horse then, looked the mighty steed up and down, for a moment worrying how she would actually manage to get up on that stallion with no mounting block in sight, but by then her husband had already rounded her and stood before her next to the horse’s head, stooping low, his fingers interlocked to form a small space with his palms, small but just big enough for one of her boots to fit in. Following his instructions, Lothíriel flushed with embarrassment as she held on to the reins and mane with her left hand, grasping the saddle horn with her right hand, as she lifted her knee and put her left foot in between her husband’s hands; and as she pushed herself off the ground with her right leg, he gave her yet another boost with his strong hands, and that indeed proved to be enough momentum for her to bring her right leg across the steed’s rear end and to swing herself right on the horse’s back.

Lothíriel smiled; she had ridden astride a horse before, but that had been years and years ago, before she had been a lady in the true sense, and even back then she had only ever mounted a horse with a mounting block, but never right off from the ground, and it was a thrilling feeling to have succeeded in something she wouldn’t even have permitted herself to think about mere months ago. Of course, she knew it was a menial thing at best, a basic requirement for anyone claiming to be a rider that they would manage to mount a horse from the ground – she knew it was nothing grand, and yet she could not help that thrilling feeling of accomplishment that made her cheeks burn in the attempt not to grin like a sated kitten bathing in the afternoon sun.

Éomer smiled; dusting of his palms he looked up at his wife barely suppressing her proud little grin and as she smoothed out her riding skirt to have it flow elegantly and appropriately all the way down her legs, showing only the peaks of her boots, with her back straight and her head held up high, well, she truly looked like a proper Rohirrim horsewoman – and that sight filled him with pride in return. But he shook his head then, meaning to shake off his own stupidly proud grin – he hadn’t come here today to gawk, and so he simply moved to unlock the gate and push it open before taking the reins from her and slowly leading the horse out of the stables.

Lothíriel relaxed as she allowed him to lead her and the horse out of the stables, thinking to herself that this riding business might not be such a terrifying idea after all, but then he bade the beast stop just outside the barn, loosely tying the reins to a post, before turning back to the stables to close the gate. Blinking rapidly, Lothíriel became all of the sudden very aware of being alone on top of a fierce beast with a will of its own, of the fact that the beast was barely tied to the post and that she did not hold the reins – although she didn’t fool herself, if this hot-blooded stallion wanted to run wild, even her delicate hands holding the reins would do her little good.

The queen shifted in the saddle, suddenly very uncomfortable and afraid, and when the beast then snorted beneath her, chomping at the bit, shaking out its mane, Lothíriel did look back, eyes searching for her husband who seemed to take all the time in the world, and in her emotionally charged state she sought to suppress her nervousness in the only way she had learned to – by conversation, ‘Are you not afraid that he would just run off … with me? Or that he would buckle and bolt and unhorse me … just like that?’, she thought to hear a soft chuckle from somewhere behind her, and looking back she saw her husband walking towards her still in that agonisingly slow strut, the relaxation radiating from his steps contrasting with her stressed mental state, ‘I know I certainly would; if someone had me on all fours and tried to ride on my back, I – ’

Lothíriel’s eyes snapped wide open as her mouth snapped shut; and as she proceeded to blush in the darkest and prettiest pink, Éomer returned with slow steps, and smiled cheekily, for he did not miss the unconscious meaning of her words, but he stayed graciously quiet on that issue, generous enough not to tease her with the way her mouth had run wild with her, and for that she was more than grateful. So, when he arrived back at the horse again at last, he simply untied the reins and took them in his hands, wordlessly motioning for her to move forward and make space for him, before he reached around her, grabbing the saddle horn, and put his foot in the stirrup and then swung himself swiftly and with an unknown grace into the saddle behind her that belied his fearsome strength and grim prowess.

‘Firefoot is a good horse, the truest companion a rider could ever wish for.’, he spoke then, as he moved to get comfortable behind her, his boots sinking into the stirrups, right hand holding the reins, left hand holding her, his fingers embracing her waist like a spider’s net, secure, all encompassing, and she could feel his warm breath brushing the skin under her hair, making her shiver, ‘Trust me, right now there is no place safer in this whole wide world than on the back of this steed.’

And then he gave one click of his tongue and a gentle nudge with his heels and the mighty steed immediately fell into a slow walking pace that carried them the rest of the way down the sloping street that Edoras had adapted from its position on top of a single hill, all the way through the gates, and then it was just the wide, open country that stretched out unbound and unrestrained before them. Leaving the city fortress behind they rode farther into the plains of green, this sea of grass swallowing them bit by bit, nature welcoming them as civilisation fell behind and out of sight and thought and memory.

Lothíriel looked about her with great curiosity, and thanks to her safe position, cushioned between man and beast, she could gaze at her surroundings with great leisure, and she could see now that spring had come to the mark, as it would seem, almost over night, and life had returned to its nature and pulsated now all round them. The very air seemed fresh and spicy, as if a great rain had washed the earth clean to have it smell of all kinds of flowers and plants among the strong scent of grass. Up in the sky birds of prey circled with ease and intent, looking for a tasty morsel to bring to their roosts; rabbits hopped across the plains, tricking the foxes that stalked them; doves and other birdies twittered somewhere far off, circling each other, looking for a mate to spend a lifetime with.

With a deep sigh that was as much regret as it was relief, Lothíriel realised how very wrong she had been in her opinions of the Mark, because where once the cold and icy desolation had shaped the face of the Riddermark, now a green paradise seemed to have sprung from, blossoming practically overnight. When she had come here all those months ago it had been the very heart of winter, and as such the land had indeed offered nothing but bleak sombreness, but she came to see now that there was indeed beauty in this new home of hers. Perhaps not the exquisite beauty of the South, with their white beaches and palm trees, their olive gardens and peach trees, the white and pink and purple colourfulness of the lilac tree rows, but there was beauty to be found here in the North too, even if it could not be found in rich colours and decorations. It was a wide, open country whose beauty lay exactly therein, in the freedom it promised. Why, she imagined, as she looked at the horizon, one could ride all the way towards that distant point where earth and sky would mate and still nothing would be found to mar the infinite atmosphere of liberating nothingness. Yes, she imagined, if one where to long for nothing but freedom, this country would truly be beautiful beyond words.

All of the sudden she was jolted out of her thoughts when the beast beneath her started to go off in a trot that left her bouncing frightfully, and her husband – ever the observant one – felt her stiffen and reacted immediately, pulling the horse to a halt, from now on intent to go on in a slower pace. Of course, she tried to explain that she had merely reacted as she did because she had been startled, but that didn’t stop him from then taking it upon himself to teach her the right way to move with the horse during the different paces. Naturally, she protested and insisted that she knew all of this and was merely out of practice, while he in return insisted that he would teach her nonetheless.

And so it came that for the better part of an hour he pressed his hand to her stomach, pulled her intimately close towards him and encouraged her, with explanations whispered in her ear, how to move with him as he demonstrated the necessary movements, and she felt her cheeks sting from the embarrassment and the liking she took to it. She was sure, however, that she was not the only one taking a wicked liking to it; she was sure her husband had more than just a riding lesson on his mind when his hand instructed her to movements when words could have done so just the same; she was sure that at least a part of him used this as an excuse to touch her more freely than he would have otherwise permitted himself, and certainly more than he had done in more than a month now. By all accounts, she knew she should be scandalised by his forward ways, annoyed by his well-meant patronising, and yet she found that she was not; nay, as she mimicked his movements, she found herself holding her breath, longing for him to touch her again.

Éomer slowed the horse down again, letting it wander freely at a leisurely pace, allowing it to catch its breath after the short canter he had put him through, although he could already feel the stallion beneath him begin to stir again with impatience. Éomer knew that the steed craved to run wild – up until now all those little sprints had merely wet the appetite, but not filled the stomach yet; it wanted more, it wanted all. It was an instinct inborn to all animals, heating their blood – spring boiled in its blood, and he could feel it in himself, too, a desire to bury his heels in the flanks of his steed and to push him to the limits; after all, rider and horse were linked, as one in their needs, and he noticed that the same desire made her heart beat faster as well, though her curiosity was still at war with her fear, but he could sense that her curiosity was slowly overcoming her fears.

‘You want to go faster?’, he asked quietly then, and with his lips so close to her ear she felt the skin prickle where his breath caressed her, and with his arms reaching around her to hold the reins she practically sank into his embrace, surrounded by all of him, and, well, she found it hard enough to keep her breathing calm and controlled, let alone speak, and so she only nodded.

‘It’s alright, I’ve got you.’, he assured her then, his voice even, seeking to soothe, seeking to ease, because although he could sense well enough the way her body tensed in his arms, he clearly misread her reasons for it. Because while she did feel nervous fear gripping her at the thought of the hard ride ahead, she also welcomed it, ready to push herself past her comfort zone today, since today she felt as though she could accomplish anything with her king by her side. And yet, it was also her king who was the reason for her body’s reaction – him being so close to her and all, well, having her body tense up was all the weak resistance she could muster up not to melt into his arms like a wanton little hussy. She smiled at that realisation, and at his attempt at reassurance, more than ready to pick up on his line of thought.

‘You won’t let me fall?’

‘Never.’

And with that he banged his heels into the stallion’s flanks, having it neigh loudly before jumping forward in to a canter and soon enough the horse was speeding up into a fully fledged gallop that took them quickly across the green fields. Holding on to the mane with all her might, Lothíriel did feel fear at first, but she knew she was safe – her king was with her, his hands held the reins tightly, his arms surrounded her safely, his body behind her making it easy to move with him and the steed beneath them, and soon enough all fear was forgotten and she just allowed herself to go. A laughter started low in her throat and burst out of her to change into a jingling clear sound that seemed to fit in perfectly with the other sounds nature offered at this sunny March afternoon. During that ride she became a child again, carefree, light, full of the ease she had believed she had lost a long time ago; a child that ran after butterflies and birds, more or less seriously trying to catch them, a child that saw the goodness and beauty in this world, a child that knew nothing of suffering and heartache. And even her king was infected by her excitement, sensing the change in her, listening to her heartfelt laughter, thinking he might never have heard a more beautiful sound in all his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUN FACT #1: I sat on a horse only once in my life and I remember it being a wholly terrifying experience for me - I so did not feel in control. Unsurprisingly, I'm a terrified driver as well.
> 
> FUN FACT #2: So, yeah, Lothíriel's getting back up on that horse. Literally. So, yeah!
> 
> FUN FACT #3 (as a certain someone demanded the return of Fun Fact #3): The next chapter's title will be Méara Cwén - if you can figure out what it means, I'll give you a clue with regard to the upcoming chapter. So, get cracking, my lovelies!


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are, my lovelies!
> 
> Thanks for all the comments, likes and all!
> 
> Next chapter next friday!
> 
> Enjoy reading and spread a little love by leaving a comment!

  1. **Méara Cwén**




Out of breath and thoroughly exhausted, and yet strangely at the height of their spirits, the happy couple returned to the city fortress of Edoras and to the stables within. Passing through the gates, Éomer had jumped down from the horse to lead it along to the stables, leaving her alone on the mighty steed – she was sure it was meant as a kindness for the horse, to have the faithful beast at last relieved off much of its burden, to give it some rest. Though she could not deny that the smile on his lips, a smile she was sure he wasn’t even aware of, spoke more of this gesture, his insistence of having her stay up on that horse, with him leading her along as though she were a lady fair back in the South and he her devout lover, reverent in his service to her. Or perhaps he simply enjoyed this image of her so much he dared not part with it too soon, that image of her on top of that horse, as though she were a true horse-queen, born and bred.

Lothíriel smiled at that thought, a smile she was more than aware of because it was an honest one. In her years as a lady at court she had learned many a different variety of smiles, different for all manner of occasions and acquaintances; she had learnt to alter the meanings of her facial expressions by the merest fraction of a shift of her lips, a flash of white teeth or the thinning of her mouth to a line sharp as steel – she knew her smile to be a fine weapon and with it she had fought many a battle and destroyed many a foe. But such a fine weapon also came with a hefty price, and she had paid dearly for it; because while pretence and manipulation came easy upon her lips, the truth so often did not – she had painted her face with false emotions for so long, forbidden her heart with an iron grip to indulge in true feelings, that she wondered if she were even capable of opening herself up enough anymore to feel any such true feelings.

Perhaps, she mused, that was only for the better: despite all the kindness she had received, she had no delusions about the nature of this marriage – she had started out as the brokering pawn in a political alliance, and for better or worse, she could expect little more. Even if love could blossom, it would be a fickle bloom at best, and the next frost of consequence and bitter reality would have it wither. If she bore him no child, love would mean little in the face of the ramifications for her and this marriage. So, would it not be better to not allow love to blossom at all? To spare herself and him the pain it would bring to realise that shy love could not conquer the expectations of their station or the bitterness disappointment would breed between them? Was it not better to deny herself, rather than to try and hope and fail and break?

And yet, as she watched him lead the horse up to the stables, a king dressed in nothing but the simple clothes of a simple man, content with himself and the world, she felt her resolve weaken, her walls shifting, her heart melting. Often she had mocked the green love that the bards sang of while secretly yearning for it, a habit born out of bitterness no doubt, a necessary impulse to paint the pain of unanswered desires with cool and logical colours. It had made it easier back then, telling herself that she did not want what she so obviously wanted, but it had not changed her heart’s foolish desire, and even as she fought to deny it now, she did long for it here and now – to be loved by him and to love him in return. Not because he was a king and she was a queen, not because he was her husband and she as his wife was to bear him a child, but because they were a man and woman free to love each other for only their own sakes.

It was a dangerous thought and an even more foolish wish, a longing that could lead to more than just heart break, and yet she felt no fear – and it was not only because it were his hands holding the reins, hands that neither shook nor hesitated. Yes, indeed, much had changed ever since she had galloped across the plains of the Mark with him. She felt almost as though she were a new person, with new courage and new strength, and yet she felt as though she were still the same woman, with the same desires and the same hopes. The only question was now whether her new-found bravery would give her the strength to acknowledge old dreams and fulfil old longings?

The sound of someone clearing his throat pulled her out of her thoughts and Lothíriel looked about perplexed, but instead of greenery and houses she found nothing but straw and wood and the interior of the stables. Blushing in the reddest of reds, the queen lowered her eyes, feeling rather embarrassed at her own mindless unawareness, like some loose little lassie lost in dallying daydreaming, and catching sight of the barely suppressed grin of her king and husband standing next to the horse he tad just tied down in its box surely did not help alleviate her feelings of abashment. Could it really be that she had wasted the whole journey back sunk in thoughts of things that could and could not be?

Gritting her teeth whilst chiding herself for her carelessness, Lothíriel tried to ignore the smug smile of her husband’s face and instead focused on the task ahead: getting off that bloody beast! However, that proved to be a rather precarious business, because not only had it been years since she had been allowed to ride astride but she had also never dismounted a horse on her own before, at least not without the help of a mounting block. Of course, she knew she could get off quite simply by merely raising herself in the saddle, swinging her right leg off the rear end and easily allow her weight to do the rest, but then again, that certain amount of flashing skirts would have been even considered outrageous back then before she had been deemed a lady, and now it would certainly be considered scandalous.

But lo and behold! Already there he was again, her king, her husband, her knight in shining armour, holding out his hands, ready to catch her lest she fell, ready to take her into his arms, ready to offer the help she would be too embarrassed to ask for. She smiled at that gesture, and rare as it was, it was an honest smile. Letting go of the saddle horn, Lothíriel turned to Éomer, and her hands sheepishly gripped his shoulders, torn between her need for support and her reluctance to be a burden, her fear even of being left to fall, ending up betrayed by her own trust. But she had no need to fear the fall or the lesson of misplaced trust, for her king and husband held on to her with steadfast surety, his large hands spanning her waist, his arms a net designed to catch her, and as she relinquished her resistance, she allowed her trust in him to make her pliable and with a sigh she allowed him to pull her off the horse with unimaginable ease.

Down she went, her arms holding on to him, his arms holding on to her, and then she was off the steed and back on the ground; but her legs, worn out from the ride, unused to the rough activity, trembled and gave out underneath her and just like that she was in his arms. He pulled her flush against him, and the shock of it, the suddenness of the movement, the way her body collided with his, it knocked the air straight out of her, and in her surprise her arms held on to him for dear life. Steadying herself in his embrace, Lothíriel looked up then, gasping for air, and as much as she trembled now, so did he stand still – unmoving, unflinching, unyielding, and his eyes studied her gaze with a quiet intensity.

She could feel it then, that something simmering between them, a feeling, old and new at the same time, just there, simmering right beneath the surface, clawing for release. She might have dismissed it as the adrenaline-fuelled reaction to her near fall, but no, there was no denying the closeness between them – for they _were_ close, as close as they had not been in weeks, and it sent sparks of electricity sizzling in the air between them. There was much and more between them in that moment: her gratitude, her joy, her happiness, but also her affection for him and his affection for her, and his hunger for the love she could bare. There were the weeks and weeks of innocent touches between them, weeks and weeks of fleeting kisses, cheeks that burned with gentle pecks, lips that thirsted for hungry kisses, and bodies that hungered for deeper embraces. Yes, there was so much between them, and yet, in that moment, then and there in the stables, there was nothing, _nothing_ between them – nothing except they themselves.

‘My Queen.’

The words came out with a deep broken whisper, and there was something warm and dark in his gaze, and though she was sure to have seen it burn in those eyes a thousand times before, this time the look in his eyes made her catch her breath, and it was not out of fear, it was excitement; and though like the surface of the sea, she appeared calm and steady, below the waves the torrents tore at her walls and crashed against her rock-steady composure. The newness of her emotion made her shiver; she had never sailed this course before, but she wanted more, although she had no inkling of what this _more_ entailed. But she wanted it, craved it, welcomed it – and with it, she welcomed him.

Éomer sensed the shift in her and held his breath as he held her gaze, taken aback by the look on her face, the emotion that shone in her eyes, and he would have been confused by what he saw in her features, had he himself not known this feeling so very well, so very intimately, painfully: it was desire, lust, simple, raw _need_. The realisation of it roused him to passion and made him wary of it at the same time, for as much as he had longed to see that same hunger in her eyes that had clawed at him more often than not, he did not entirely trust it to last. Her eyes were deep pools of blue, burning with desire at the surface perhaps, but, he mused, no one knew what lay beneath that in the dark depths, and whatever desire she might feel now, it might as easily give way to the old fears he had seen so often in her gaze, and even just the thought of it made something in his chest constrict almost painfully.

And yet she was looking at him, not looking away as she so often had done, not shying away, not retreating, not distancing; she was still here with him, right there in his arms, and she still looked at him with eyes that invited him. And then her eyes wandered, slowly, languorously, taking their time as they flickered from his gaze to his lips, and for a moment she kept her gaze fixed upon it, her features showing so clearly what her mind was only just processing, and when she bit her bottom lip, swallowing hard, she looked up, and with eyes wide, she finally understood what she craved, and so did he.

Now it was his turn to deliver; before, he could have dismissed it, her insecurity enough reason and excuse not to press forward, but now there was no such simple escape – the expectation, the _need_ in her eyes compelling him to deliver on it. And thus it was that he found himself leaning forward, slowly, carefully, his head angling down as she lifted hers to meet him, and after a moment of waiting for a protest or retreat that never came he pressed his mouth onto her trembling lips at last.

It was nothing but a chaste touch of two lips, but it was their first kiss after the wedding ceremony, and it was the first touch of passion in weeks, and indeed it was the first touch of desire shared by both of them in equal measure, and that made it all the more potent. But kiss or not, Éomer knew it to be a test; a test designed to experiment on this feeling between them, and he was the first one to retreat, equally hesitant and eager to gauge her reaction, fully expecting the old barriers of distance and fear to have returned, but to his surprise he found that it was not so.

She was still there, chin lifted up towards him, eyes hooded, darkened, hovering on the precipice of her new-found desire, waiting for him, waiting for them to fall together. And thus, swallowing hard, he moved forward again, pressing his lips upon hers once more, still careful but with more urgency this time, and it was only supposed be that, another simple kiss, another simple, cautious exploration of this desire between them, but just as he willed himself to move back again and to break off the kiss, she came after him to chase his lips for more, and he was undone.

Lothíriel felt the new urgency of his kiss, the trembling of his lips against hers, and for a moment that thought confused and amused alike, that a mighty warrior such as him would tremble in the arms of a weak maiden such as her, but then the thought was gone and she was all his again. It took her only moments to learn how to respond to him, and with a sigh her lips parted against his, opening up to him, welcoming him, and as her arms locked in the back of his neck, so did his arms come around her middle, holding her there tightly, keeping her close, pulling her even closer.

With every move and touch of lips and tongues the kiss grew more and more intense, leaving them breathless; a heat began to cloud her mind, a heaviness seemed to settle in her very bones, keeping her tethered to him, and it was thus that she hardly noticed that their feet began to move of their own volition – no, of his volition. It was only when her back met the wall of the stables that she realised that he had moved them further and further into a dark corner of the horse’s box – and for a moment their lips broke apart and their eyes met again.

His eyes were almost black now, the sea of green had made way to a grass steppe at night, and wild, feral winds stormed across it; the sight made her heart beat faster, and it thrilled her with fear and excitement in almost equal measure, anticipating his next kiss – but that kiss never came. Instead he came closer, so close she could feel the hardness of his body press against her tightly, the heat of his flesh burning against her. She could not breathe, and she was unsure whether it was the closeness of their bodies or his gaze that stole her breath away but it became ever more unbearable – a heady feeling built up inside her, between them, making her feel ready to explode. And yet no sound of protest crossed her lips, no movement of defence stirred her limbs, instead she found herself reacting to him in a way she had not known before: an unknown heat pooled deep down in her belly, and it made her feel weightless and heavy at the same time.

Slowly she felt his hands move away from her waist, lower and lower, and the rest of his body moved with his hands, down, closer to her, until their faces were close enough for their noses to meet. But he would not kiss her again, he only stared at her and there was such hunger in his eyes, his gaze burrowing right through her, into the depths of her very soul, and whatever he found there, seemed to be what he had been looking for all along. She felt his hands then, those large paws, cupping her arse, and the rough nature of that touch was as unfamiliar as it was thrilling, and it made her gasp for air, before he was lifting her up, and instinctively, as her feet left the ground, her legs came around him, seeking something, anything, to hold on to, but there was only him.

And there she was, trapped between man and wall, and she was caught between the crashing waves of their desires. She was breathing hard now, almost panting, growing heady from the breathlessness, and yet her king, breathing heavily too, sought her lips for more, as though to steal the very breath from her mouth, and all she could do was try and keep up with him. The kisses now were not chaste any longer nor were they passionate, except if one were to think of passion as a form of hunger, feral and desperate and overwhelmingly devouring – his mouth on hers grew sloppy, imprecise and wild, and it became harder and harder for her to respond in kind, her feelings of passion marred with her thoughts of reason.

_A true lady never forgets her_ _proper_ _manners._ Her sister-in-law’s cheeky grin as she talked of a woman’s pleasure. _Your husband is your king, and your king is your husband._ Her father’s cruel smile, full of pride, full of certainty that she would do what she was tasked to do. _What do you think? Do the horselords fuck_ _their ladies_ _like their stallions mount their mares?_ Her Gondorian handmaidens sniggering coldly behind her back. _How could we ever expect a Southern lady to understand?_ A people who would never fully, truly accept her, the stranger princess from the treacherous South. _Rise with the tides._ Her father, after the war, cruelly reminding her of the heartless, unjust nature of the world. _What good does a mare unfit for breeding?_ The certainty that what little value she had lay in between her thighs alone. _A city afire, a horse aflame, a deathly struggle, a crazed sound of desperate whinnying, the stench of burned flesh,_ _hands that fought with tears and pleas, drunken laughter that barely masked the cruel lust within_ _._ The memory of war running her down, again and again and again …

It was too much, simply too much – the heat, the closeness, the hardness, the tightness, the thoughts, the feelings, the memories, the fears, the desires; it all became embroiled in her head, tearing her consciousness from one extreme to the other, slowly overwhelming her. Breaking free of the kiss, gasping for air, her eyes snapped open, as she tried to anchor herself in this moment again, as she tried to regain the pleasant sensations she had experienced just a few moments ago, as she tried to recall the heated desires that had swept her away just a few seconds ago, but it had all turned to ice now, overridden by other, more sombre thoughts and feelings.

And perhaps she had thought that her husband and king would sense the shift in her, perhaps she had thought that he would react, perhaps she had thought that he would stop, that he would care, but perhaps she had simply expected too much? That he would notice and understand and act, rather than interpret the signs of her body language in the narrow-minded way he had been taught to see it: the tensing of her body, the goosebumps on her skin, the laboured breathing – indeed, had it been too much to expect him to grasp the difference, and to adapt to it? He had changed so much over the last few weeks, had become kinder, warmer, closer to her – so yes, she thought bitterly, perhaps she had thought that he would change in this regard too. But perhaps he hadn’t, perhaps he was still a man and he was still a king and he was still her husband – so how could she deny him, even if, in her heart, she knew this wasn’t right, neither the time nor the place nor the feeling?

Her husband and king knew nothing of her inner conflict, he didn’t sense the questions and thoughts and fears she was struggling with, for he was still enthralled in the passions that had gripped her not so long ago, and where she thought, he felt. When she had broken free from the kiss, he hadn’t let that deter him, his mouth, still hungering for more, simply moving on, and with lips and teeth he had scarred her flesh: her neck his marked territory, his hot breath branding her as his. And his hands roamed free; first, they had only held her close to him, and when he had cornered her with his body, keeping her in place, keeping her close against him, his hands had full rein to touch and explore and lay claim to her. His hands seemed to be everywhere at once: at her back, pulling her towards him, leaving no space between them; at her front, feverish fingers brushing the tips of her breasts with more than just the promise of passionate urgency; at her arse, pulling her hard against him, making her feel that part of him that lusted for her as he rubbed up against her; on her thighs, rough fingers edging under her skirts, drawing closer to the finish line of her woollen stockings and then beyond.

She wasn’t sure exactly what it was that made her snap out of her numb, passive state – the way his hips bucked into her, like a crazed stallion in heat, or the way his whole body seemed to press her into the hard wood behind her, chafing her back raw, or the way his trembling fingertips hunted for that secret garden his majesty had not graced for over a month now? But no matter what it was, it was enough to pull her consciousness back to reality and to propel her into action.

With a strength she had not known she possessed, she pushed him away and to her shocked, infinite surprise, he yielded. All of the sudden, the heat was gone and with it the steadiness of their embrace; she felt her feet returning to the grounds of reality and she had to grip the wall of the stables with both hands to keep her weak knees from buckling in, and, in the end, it was all that really kept her from sinking to the ground when she saw him there, watching her with eyes still dazed by lust but clearing with confusion and even hurt and anger. Cold realisation iced down her back as she came to grips with the reality that she had just denied her husband his every right, had just refused a king his kingly right, had just rejected a seasoned warrior, capable of deeds of great violence. It was too much. Too much. _Had she gone too far? What would he do now?_

For a moment there Éomer did feel anger swell in him, ready to snap at her, to force her to explain herself but when he beheld her all his anger and his words died on his lips: there she was, wide-eyed, speechless, heavily breathing, dishevelled hair and disarrayed clothes, lips swollen from his wild kissing. She seemed utterly shocked and confused at his passion, and her own, and Éomer realised once more how very young and innocent she truly was. It was then that he became aware of his own state: his heavy breathing, the dirt on his hands, the dust on his clothes, the stench of the stables on him, and the sight of a very needy and very obvious erection painfully reminding him of what they had been doing, of what he had been doing, of what he had almost been doing.

Looking up he saw her staring at him, _staring_ , but not _seeing_ , her eyes blind to anything other than what she saw in her mind’s eye, replaying the images and motions and sensations of just a few moments ago. _She is frightened_ , was all he could think and in that moment he could have smashed his fool’s head against one of the stables’ wooden beams. All his efforts, all his good intentions, all his work tossed into the wind; weeks and weeks of self-imposed restraint, patience and respectful distance thrown into the gutter in the blink of an eye, and for what? The lusty impatience of a king out of control, crazed like a stallion in heat? With a growl deep in his throat he cursed, quite aware of the way she flinched at that sound, and seeing her react in fear was enough to snap him out of his own self-pity and self-loathing. _She had responded to him, hadn’t she?_ , he thought hopefully then, like a man desperate to see the good with the bad; yes, at first, she had responded to him, which meant that at least a part of her must have craved for him the way he had craved for her, or so he told himself.

‘Lothíriel, listen … let me explain … ’, he started in a sudden moment of regret, his hands held up in a non-threatening gesture, trying to calm her down as she slowly edged out from her trap in the corner, wishing to explain his actions, wishing to make her understand, but by then she had already turned on her heels and hastened back up to Meduseld, fleeing to the seclusion of the Golden Hall, and leaving her king and husband behind, alone with his thoughts and his guilt.

* * *

With a contented sigh, Lothíriel closed her eyes and sank deeper into the bathtub, allowing the steaming water to enclose her almost fully, allowing the heat to ease the tension in her sore muscles, so unused to the unfamiliar physical exertion of riding. She smiled, humming softly to her herself, not so much any melody in particular but simply a sounding manifestation of a vague feeling of ease and comfort. She could feel it then, the almost supernaturally relaxing effect the water had on her, but then again, as legends would have it, she was a creature of the sea as the sea was in her blood and water was her element after all, so it was only to be expected.

But she knew even the calming, relaxing effect the water had on her would not do her much good in soothing the troubling thoughts and feelings that were still running amok in her mind. Opening her eyes for a moment, her gaze flitted over to the big four-poster bed, the neatly folded blankets belying the non-regal acts that had happened there, or rather, coldly stating the lack of regal duties that were supposed to be happening there. Her eyes squeezed shut and she hissed, almost as if in pain, and indeed she worked painfully hard to try and make sense of the confusing feelings inside her head.

On the one hand, this had been one of the happiest days of her life, and the gratitude she felt towards him was almost overwhelming. After months of fear and echoing trauma, she had learned to trust again, to allow herself to fall and yet to feel safe; after years of drilled-in etiquette, of having to wear a mask for the world, she had dared to let it slip, to allow herself to breathe and to be free, and yet to feel accepted and respected. And just thinking back on it now, she could feel tears stinging her eyes, but she would not begrudge herself those tears, because for once they were not tears of sorrow but tears of joy.

On the other hand, however, she had felt all that happiness tainted with shame and regret, and the cold realisation that as she had believed herself free to fall, he had caught her in his grip again, making her retreat into her old patterns of submission rather than permission, to be a wife rather than a woman. She was sure, had he persisted in his rights as her husband back there, she would have yielded to him, not gladly but dutifully; too overwhelmed to recall her new sister’s stance on a woman’s pleasure, too well-trained and too traumatised to demand consideration for herself, too disillusioned to feel more than just the satisfaction of his lust. Weeks and weeks of a slowly-built trust gone – for all her overwhelmed shock and frozen state of mind, it might as well have been her wedding night all over again.

With another sigh she opened her eyes again, and again she focused on the canopy bed, but this time her gaze didn’t settle on the big looming empty space of the bed or the dark green linen curtains overshadowing it or the suggestive imagery carved into the wooden board, just visible underneath the propped up cushions. Instead, it settled on a little stack of books, bound together by a ribbon of green and white colour, and she felt her heart melt at the sight, and she knew in that moment that not all fires burned to consume, some burned to warm the soul, and some burned to connect, so that two could become one.

Yes, his rash actions had shocked her and she had not known what to do or how to react, but at the same time she recalled that, at the beginning, she had liked it. She had wanted to be held, she had wanted to be kissed, but more than that, _she_ had wanted to kiss, _she_ had wanted to touch, _she_ had wanted to explore the sensation that was coiling in her guts. Yes, she had liked the beginnings of it, more than _liked_ it even, and no matter what came after it, she would not deny herself the joy she had experienced at first. And yet, somehow, that didn’t magically make this whole mess any easier, rather on the contrary, it became even more twisted.

She was torn, that’s what it felt like, simply torn. One part of her felt ashamed of having denied her husband, while another part of her felt that it had been just too much intimacy to bear and she had not known any other way to react but to try and flee the situation. And then there was that little voice in her head that bravely whispered that she had indeed felt pleasure at her husband’s touch and that it was not so much a regretting of having denied her husband that pained her but rather a regretting of having denied herself the possibility of pleasure at her husband’s own hands.

Of course, that didn’t mean that his behaviour back there hadn’t disturbed her, but thinking back on it now, she didn’t recall fear, only a sense of overwhelming new sensations that scared her only insofar that she didn’t yet understand them. At no time had she not felt safe in his care, only she wasn’t sure whether he really would have had a care for her and her needs, especially because she herself did not yet understand what those needs really were, and Lothíriel remembered well her new sister’s words about her brother’s inexperience with women who were inexperienced. Could it be that in this he was just as unsure as she was? Could it be that his seemingly overzealous actions were nothing but a result of his insecurity, a reaction of his desperate need taking desperate measures that led to desperate outcomes? Could it be that this was as new to him as it was to her? And if she could learn to trust him in this, could he not learn to trust her in this as well?

A sudden draught of air startled her and she was torn out of her thoughts, and turning around half-way to see the source of the disturbance, her gaze was met with that of her husband’s. Éomer stood there in all his worn-out glory: the dirty, rumpled riding clothes glued to his form like a snake’s shed skin, the smell of horse and sweat clinging to him like a vague memory of something more, echoing to her the ramifications of the incident from before. And for a moment there, she was too lost in the nature of his gaze to consider anything else: the dark shades of the green of his eyes, the way they tightened, the way they zeroed in on her – it made her wonder what she could have done now to cause his anger, nay, his hatred, and it made her breath hitch as something strange constricted painfully in her chest. _Oh, she could think of_ one _reason, for sure._

But then she saw his eyes wander and his gaze linger there, and then, just as she realised that it wasn’t anger blackening his eyes, she became aware again of her state of undress. With a gasp and a cry of shame (that, honestly, reminded her of one those squealing, squeaking water mammals from the sea), she sat up bolt right and pulled her knees against her chest, crossing her arms in front of her, and covering herself up as best she could, given that she was a stark-naked woman in a bathtub filled with crystal-clear water.

At that Éomer smiled and the expression of the brooding warrior with lust in his eyes vanished, replaced by no little amount of amusement as he made a sound somewhere between a snort and a sigh, shaking his head as he descended the few stairs down to the bed, chuckling as he went. It was astounding to him that even after all this time – after all the times he had seen her naked – she still blushed to let him see her like this. But perhaps, he thought, sobering, it wasn’t her own nakedness that disturbed her in that moment, but rather the memory of how easily such a thing could rouse him to passion, and how reckless he could be once those passions were roused.

His smiled faded into bitterness as images of the incident in the stables came back to him, and again shame and regret came with it. He knew he hadn’t just stayed behind in the stables to dust off his horse and to unsaddle and unbridle it – he had stayed behind to cool off from the heat of what had happened between them, or rather, what could have happened between them, and also to clear his mind. The first part had been easy, he mused, as he looked down sheepishly while taking off the sword belt along with his sword, putting it away on the bedside table, making sure that absolutely no obvious evidence of his passions from before could be seen rising up. The second part, however, well, let’s just say, he was still figuring that out, and right now, he was more or less making it up as he went along.

_She had responded to him._

She had kissed him back, held on to him, moved with him. Yes, at first, she had responded to him – which meant that at least a part of her (and he did not know how strong that part of her was) did not reject his advances, quite on the contrary, a part of her had craved them, and yet it must have been something in the nature of his advances too that had scared her off. Had it been the way he moved, the way he held on to her, the way he grabbed her? With any of the other women he had been with before, it had been enough, or at least, that’s what it had felt like; any other woman he had known intimately had surrendered so easily and with such ease – but not her, never her. It was then that he remembered his sister’s wise words, words that had mortified him not so many weeks ago, words that had pained him, confused him, provoked him, and yet, now they intrigued him.

_Pleasure is in more than just a touch; pleasure is in a feeling – a feeling of freedom, a feeling of confidence, a feeling of trust._

‘My Lord, what are you doing?’

The question pulled him out of his increasingly confusing thoughts and jolted him back into reality. Turning around to look at her, he now stood between the bed and the bathtub, and his queen was looking at him with wide, perplexed eyes, and he understood at once the reason for her obvious shock. While lost in thoughts, Éomer had managed to take off his belt and his short-sleeved tunic, and now he was already in the process of reaching for the hem of his long-sleeved shirt. For a moment there he halted, unsure whether or not to proceed, but then again, it had been a very long and very exhausting morning, and the ride itself had been the least of it, and anyway, it would do neither of them any good to simply retreat back into the safe, little shells they had carved out for themselves. So that left only one way to go: onward.

‘Taking my clothes off.’, he said with that dry, matter-of-factly tone you would expect from a man of his smug confidence, but then again, what else could he have said in response to such an obvious question with such an obvious answer?

‘Yes, I can see that.’, she spoke then, after a long pause, as though she was still deciphering whether or not he was making a jest of her, and she spoke with no little amount of annoyance, and she would have rolled her eyes at his answer, had her eyes not been distracted by the play of muscles that was flaunted on his broad chest as he pulled his shirt over his head, ‘I just don't quite understand why _now_ , and why _here_?’

Éomer couldn’t help it, he had to smile at that; that strenuous effort she made to conceal her very obvious annoyance and very obvious distraction with barely veiled politeness. He had seen the look in her eyes change; he had seen it before, down in the stables, and he had wanted to see it again, even if that meant having to bare it all. Éomer chuckled under his breath, managing to disguise it as having to clear his throat – he wouldn’t laugh at the situation as there was nothing to laugh about: fair is fair, after all, he had seen all of her, perhaps, it was time that he should let her see all of him?

‘Well, I'm going to take a bath. A king in his own kingdom should be at least granted this simple joy, should he not?’

‘Of course, my Lord, b-but … but the point is ...’, she began hesitantly, struggling with the limitations of her social upbringing as she dared to object to his logic, albeit royally politely. But then again, her struggles might also have been brought on by something else, as she was very obviously distracted again when he took off his boots while sitting on the edge of the bathtub: his broad shoulders exposed to her, hard muscles dancing under tender skin. Her hands burned from the wish to reach out and touch him, so she pushed them down into the water, forming fists so tight her nails buried themselves deep into the flesh of her palms, doing everything, _anything_ , to keep her composure. She closed her eyes, trying to concentrate on how to form the words in her mouth as she positively pressed them out through her teeth, ‘ _I am having a bath right now._ ’

At that he chuckled quietly again and it was a sound that came from somewhere deep within his throat. Rising up he simply threw his boots away before he turned around to her and slowly leaned forward, closer and closer, until their faces were mere inches apart and his hands gripping the rim of the bathtub was all that kept him from jumping into the tub and kept her from pulling him in. Her lord and husband was smiling but it was a grim smile and it couldn’t distract her from the burning expression in his eyes; it made her shiver as he spoke low under his breath, ‘We are quite the observer, aren't we?’

Holding her breath, she dared not to move lest the fragile balance between them was tipped, having the tension explode, throwing them into chaos, and perhaps, she thought that if neither of the moved, if neither of them made a choice, then nothing would happen and all would be as it as was, and all would be well. But, of course, she had set her hopes high and without considering her husband and king, and Éomer Horse-Lord had no intention of putting off making a choice any longer; he had made his choice already, and now he decided it was to be her turn. Pushing himself off the rim of the bathtub, he simply leaned up again and with a single, swift movement he pushed down his breeches, and then he stood there before her in all his naked glory. For a moment only her eyes widened and then she slid down slowly, deeper and deeper into the tub, sinking beneath the surface of the water until merely half of her face could be seen – but she did not look away, and he gave her credit for that.

For a moment, he didn’t move, forcing himself instead to stand still, even though he already felt the urge tugging at him to cover up and to escape her gaze. Usually, he would not have minded to be seen by her, after all, she had seen him naked often enough when they had shared a bed and he was not a man of shy nature, but there was a profound difference between the furtive glances taken in between the doings of their bodies and this blatant display of his whole self. And yet, he remained still, right then and there as he was. He wanted her to see all of him, allowing her gaze to linger, her eyes to wander, giving her all the time she needed to take him all in, submitting all the power in this relationship in this moment to her, surrendering himself to her fully.

And indeed, at the sight of him her eyes changed, darkened, tightened, and then they wandered, slowly, carefully, taking him all in, drinking in the broadness of his shoulders, the hard muscles of his chest, the curved line of his hips, and lower still. And there her eyes lingered for a moment, as it would seem to make sense of what she was faced with, and judging by her expression she must have never before looked upon a naked man, at least never so brazenly or for such a long time, for apprehension made way to curiosity and beyond that, fascination. Her mouth opened then, as if to say something, as if to bombard him with question after question she most definitely must have had, but then her teeth snapped shut again and she looked up with a sheepish look on her face and a deep red flush on her cheeks.

In that moment Éomer realised one thing, something he had not seen before, but he saw it now and he swallowed hard at that image – red cheeked, biting lips, big eyes looking up at him – and he knew that for all her calm and collected composure, her perfect poise, there was an uncertainty behind it. He knew that his wife might have been told all there was to know about reproduction and intercourse, but she knew nothing of pleasure and even less of lust or even love – for all her accomplishments as a woman, in this regard she was little more than a girl. He would have laughed at the irony of the statement, but there was nothing to laugh about here; in the act of love she was as innocent as he was in the feeling of love. But, he thought, remembering his sister’s adamant advice, if he could learn to love, then she could learn to trust as well, and perhaps, even learn to love in return – all it needed was the patience of a soul as willing to learn as she was, to help her learn and encourage her thirst for knowledge, her thirst for more.

Éomer made but one step towards her then but it was all it took to have her flinch almost violently, and just like that she was back to sitting clenched-up in the bathtub, knees pulled up, arms around herself, shielding herself, body tense and on high alert. She watched him with dark eyes then, full of wariness and perhaps quite another emotion, as he rounded the bathtub with slow, deliberate steps, and she sensed more than she actually saw as he sat down on a stool next to bathtub, with her back towards him and him out of her sight. Usually, this would have made her most uncomfortable, being fully seen by him but not able to fully see him, but not now, and even though she could not deny the old feeling of alarm creeping up her neck it was almost entirely drenched out by some intense curiosity, the sheer need to know what might happen if she just so let it happen.

Blind to his movements and blind to his intentions, she had only her other senses to tell her what would happen, what he would do, and so she simply waited and listened. She heard the scraping of the chair leg as he moved forward, felt the commotion of the water as he broke the surface, and when he dipped his hand into the warm bathwater to let it trickle onto her back, slowly, oh so slowly, she at last gave up the sigh she had not known she had held and let go of the old fears she still harboured. She wanted to be free, so she had to let herself be free.

Drip by drip and drizzle by drizzle her king poured the water over her, soaking her skin, soaking her hair, washing the stench of the stables off of her. His hands wove themselves into her raven her, fingers combing through her long tresses, massaging her scalp, and with a hum and a sigh she sank back, her whole body relaxing under his careful touch as he washed her with the reverence of a worshipper. Her eyes closed as she allowed herself to simply enjoy his treatment of her; hands and fingers and palms that wandered from her hair to her shoulders and arms, kneading away the tension of hours of hard riding and a stiff saddle. Normally, she would have been scandalised by this, but she was too exhausted, too much in need of relaxation to care – why, she had been too tired even and too impatient to put on a bathing shirt, but right now that slight of bathing etiquette seemed to be paying off nicely enough.

She floated off into a momentum of bliss, her senses clouded, and thus it took her quite a while to realise that he was actually talking to her in soft, quiet words,  and  the buzzing sound of syllables blending into each other  became a woven tapestry of sound  that enveloped her fully and completely .  For a moment only, time and the world itself seemed at a standstill, neither past nor future seemed to matter, and all the pain and all the questions were past caring;  in  that moment, she was truly free. It was only when he ceded his clever touches that she slowly awakened out of her haze, and still dizzy from relaxation, she saw him  naked and speaking  as  he crouched before the tub,  and  even on his knees he seemed to tower above her,  she mused with some annoyance, and yet his words could not have been more humbling,  his mischievous smile of before gone.

‘ I know you’re unhappy, Lothíriel. ’,  he simply stated as though it  were the easiest thing in the world, as though it didn’t have the carefully structured walls of her pretence come crashing down,  ‘Ever since you got here, you have been unhappy, alone, afraid’. 

And then he paused, as though he seemed to be searching for the right words to speak, and this would have been the chance for her speak, to object, but she was too ashamed to meet his gaze, too poised, too composed, and anyway, she was too tired to pretend any longer that she was content and happy when really she was nothing but lost. But then again, that wasn’t entirely true anymore, was it?  It was true, the last few weeks had slowly but surely crept up on her and again and again she had found herself smiling, laughing, genuinely enjoying herself, but she was still too caught up in the vice-like grip of her indoctrinated manners to reveal that she had been happy, even if only for a short while.

‘I know this marriage wasn’t your idea. It’s a sad thing that in our world women seldom have the freedom to choose their own husbands.’, he stopped for a second and his mouth split into a grim smile, his green eyes gleaming with good-natured humour, as though remembering a jest someone had played on him once, something that had annoyed him before but only amused him now, ‘But – you might be surprised to hear – men, too, seldom choose their wives for non-practical reasons. So it was for me, as it was for you.’, he paused again, and this time he looked her directly in the eye, intent on capturing her reaction she so desperately sought to hide, ‘I didn’t love you when I married you. You didn’t love me when you married me.’

He had expected a show of objection there, an insistence on the contrary, anything to appease the offended manly man she no doubt tended to see him as – but, credit where credit is due, she remained silent. That was not to say that she did not react – her lips, though they sought to remain firmly shut, did open for a moment as though to speak, and her eyes grew large and wide the second she realised at last that he had seen right through her. He smiled at the image of that realisation sinking in, but only for a moment, and then he spoke once more, his tone observational again, ‘But still, I had no need to leave my home and all I loved and knew behind. You, however, found yourself a stranger in a strange land.’

And then he was looking at her again, always looking, always seeing, and she didn’t need to look up to know it to be true; she knew because she could sense his intense gaze upon her, that gaze that managed to pierce all the walls she had built up around herself, ‘I realised I have given very little though to what you must have been going through all those months. No, truly, you could not have been very happy, and I confess that I had no small part in that. But, Lothíriel, trust me when I tell you this’, and here he made a pregnant pause and used it well to stretch his hand out to her and raise her shyly lowered chin with his fingers, to have her look at him, really look at him, and verily, she could see the sincerity in his gaze as he continued, and the conviction with which he spoke shook her to the very core, ‘I do want to make you happy, truly – and not just as a wife, but as a woman also.’

And then he released her again, pulling his hand back as though burned by the touch, and she looked away just as quickly, too overcome by conflicting emotions and contrary needs to meet his pleading gaze any longer. She needed space to really, truly comprehend the meaning of his vow; she needed to think and _not_ think at the same time. All the while, she could feel that her own frustration, her own insecurity, her own uncertainty was passing on to him as well: gone was the conviction from before, gone the confidence of the warrior incarnate, instead he was nothing but a man asking for the woman he loved to love him in return, and one could just hear that desperate longing in his tone, that hesitancy shaking in his voice, ‘If that is what you wish – if you would have me.’

For a moment, she was quite surprised and overwhelmed by his speech and at first she was unsure what it truly was that she wanted or what it was that she should do, but then, ever so slow and small a movement, she nodded – no more, no less. And she was not sure what she had expected to happen then – perhaps that he would lean forward and capture her in a rushed, triumphant kiss or that his lips would spread in that happy smile she so seldom had the privilege to see. But he did none of these things, he only imitated her own gesture and nodded, almost absent-mindedly, and as the stark silence stretched out between them, she came to realise that he was actually waiting for her to make the first move, to give him a sign of what she wanted him to do – or not; and it only dawned on her now how great the power truly was that he had handed over to her. For not only did he give her the power to take control of herself but, in the same breath, of him as well.

At first, she was simply too stunned by the sheer unfamiliarity of it, this strange, new feeling of power filling her, rattling her. All her life she had been princess, daughter, wife – she had never truly been in control – and now that she was, she felt unsure of what to do or how to proceed. She knew she wanted to touch and to be touched in return, but she had never learned the rules of love, all the intricate stratagems of advance unknown to her. And so all she had was the impulse of curiosity to guide her, the instinctual drive to explore, to experience, to discover, and thus, leaving all known rules and manners of propriety behind, she followed her own heart and desires into the unknown. 

Nervously and self-consciously she made eye contact then, her gaze desperate and shy at the same time, trying to signal her wishes in silence, for she was too mortified yet to utter them out loud. But her king, his eyes intent on her, did not mistake her meaning. Slowly, he dove his hands into the steaming bath water and, following the silent guidance of her gaze, he began to pour water onto the leg she stretched out towards him. She did not look at him as began to wash her; her face red and hot, and she was not just blushing from the heat of the steaming bath water.

His fingertips, roughened from a life of riding and fighting, were at first only stroking her skin with careful touch, moving up and down her calf, slowly and with patient dedication, but soon the movements of his hands changed and he started to massage her calf and with every touch he claimed more of her skin. Until now she had been careful to avoid his gaze, though she was more than conscious of his eyes on her, but now, with his hands so teasingly kneading away the tension from her muscles, and with a pleasure made of pain rippling all the way up her spine, she felt her head sink back against the edge of the tub and, automatically, her eyes locked with his.

There was an intensity in his gaze that made her catch her breath, and feeling herself melt away under his hands, she could not help those little sounds of surprised pleasure escape her lips. And with his ears drinking in her pleased reaction, his gaze grew all the more intense. And though this intensity was almost too much to bear, she found herself unable to look away again. True, she had always taken an almost shameful pleasure in watching him, and now she didn’t even mind being confronted with his watching her in return. It was almost as if a reckless glee had overtaken her usually shy and composed self, and in her stead another woman stood that felt not compelled any longer by any false sense of modesty or shame.

Perhaps it was only the very nature of this situation, so unfamiliar to the conventional institution of marriage as she had come to know it; none of the restrictive codes of marital conduct appeared to exist here between them. Here and now they seemed to be more than mere husband and wife, but a man and a woman connected by something far deeper than the bonds of marriage; a connection made up of mutual attraction, strengthened by deep-seated respect and tentative trust, fuelled by curiosity and desire. And despite the many times that they had shared a bed, that he had been with her and she with him, that their eyes had watched the other, this moment here felt as though it were the very first time they came together, and it felt far more intimate than anything else that had passed between them. It felt as though they were discovering each other anew, but still it was more than that. She was discovering herself, discovering her body’s strange reactions – the way her senses spiked at the lightest touch, the thin hairs in her neck that rose in anticipation, her heartbeat that quickened in response. She felt a wave of constant excitement shaking her as the myriads of new sensations washed over her.

She had never felt this way before, and never could she have imagined that anyone could ever feel this way, and yet here she was – blushing, panting, sighing; welcoming her husband-stranger as the lover she had never known, that she had never even dared to imagine. With this, here and now, there was a wholly new layer of intimacy to their relationship – where before there had been gentle, controlled advances, made of careful curiosity and budding affection, there was now a desire and will of exploration, bereft of all control, and where before she would have been scandalised and scared, she now felt only excited and thrilled.

And thus it was that she found herself meeting her husband’s dark gaze head-on, watching him with an intensity, burning, the least to match his own, if not more. For where he had had years and leave to explore and understand his desires, to come into his own with his passions, she had had to keep herself in control, to behave as a model of modesty, to be conceived as a person of title, not as a person of body. She had never had the chance to learn and to explore, and thus all those emotions and steps of awakening sensuality crashed down on her now, those feelings of power, of anticipation, of fear, of excitement, of curiosity and desire. She was awash in a torrent of sensations and giving up all sensible thoughts, she gave herself with wild abandon over to those sensations, and to him.

Her eyes, darker than the deepest blue of the sea, looked at him with a gaze he had never seen in her before and it made him shiver with arousal and his hand began to tremble on her soft flesh – but then, lo and behold, there she was, his Queen, keeping him steady, and leading him onto that new path they both wished to tread as equals. With determined steadiness she placed her hand on his and slowly moved him higher up, ever higher, until his hand vanished into the hot bathwater, not to be seen again. He met her gaze again then, to make sure that this was what she wanted and her eyes, so blue they seemed black, stared back at him without hesitation, and he swallowed hard as she nodded slowly.

Higher and higher his hand went, across her knee, higher, even higher, onto her thigh, and even further up, and ever he was watching her expression, to reassure himself of her consent. He could feel her shiver beneath his touch, hear her breathing go shallow, and though he had little experience with such pleasures, he knew he was on the right track here. All of the sudden then she cried out and he stopped dead.

‘Did I hurt you?’

‘No!’, she answered quickly, perhaps too quickly, and he smiled again for the first time, realising that he was not the only one who had little experience with such pleasures. Slowly she settled down again and swallowing hard he could see a small, confused smile forming around her lips as though she began to understand her cause of shock. He met her gaze and again awaiting her to set the pace, she nodded slowly and then his hand went back below the surface; and this time there was no cry of shock or insecurity, and though she trembled at his touch, it was not out of fear.

Soon her breathing went shallow again and under it small, delicate sounds escaped; her hands gripped the rim of the bathtub, so tightly her knuckles turned white, so tightly her nails raked across the wood. Her head felt too hot and too heavy and fell back against the back of the bathtub; her eyes closed of their own accord. Soon enough those delicious sounds turned to sighs and moans and little cries, and in another life she would have been shocked at her behaviour, but here and now she spared little thought to that as she had no thoughts left to think. She could not think, could not talk – she could only feel, and feel she did.

Lothíriel felt as though a fire made of pleasure and pain had been ignited in the centre of her very being; she wound herself in the bathtub, splattering water all over the floor, trying to escape the delicious sensations that his fingers gave her, sensations of such pleasure she could hardly bear it but still craved for it, and the sensations grew ever more until she believed she could not take it any longer. And ever did that vague edge of some momentum linger at the back of her consciousness, and yet it always slipped away. And then – nothingness; blissful, sudden release, a waterfall of pleasure drowning her, torrents of sensations ripping at her, shaking her, making her cry and shiver, once, twice, at the peak of her pleasure.

When she managed to open her eyes again, she opened them to a new world: the world around her seemed awash in new sensations and she seemed acutely sensitive to them. The wood of the bathtub offered an enticing new roughness that caused a delicious friction under her skin. The water pooling all around her seemed to especially kiss her most sensitive skin. The sounds in her ears were a throbbing but titillating staccato and she realised it were the frantic beats of her very own heart, and the air, even the air was full of such smell, darkly sweet and rich, that it made her mouth water in excitement. And then she became aware of another sound, that of laboured breathing, but it was not her own.

Lothíriel slowly lifted her head and was faced with the sight of her husband who was now also her lover. The man crouching before the bathtub had his eyes closed, trying to control his heavy breathing, and when he opened his eyes to meets hers, she could see the same desire in his gaze that racked her. She saw that he wanted her, and what surprised her most, she realised, was that she wanted him too, to be with him, to feel him, all of him, to have him fill her with the same passions that shook him. She wanted it all, and she wanted it now.

With a sudden motion that surprised him, she rose from the bathtub, standing tall, and though the cool air of the chamber made her shiver, it did nothing to ease the heat within her. Looking down she saw her lover-husband looking up at her, his eyes darkening with a now familiar emotion, and she cared not that he saw her like this, rather she wanted him to see her, to see all of her, and what was more, she wanted to see him too, all of him. 

Slowly she reached towards him, tucking one strand of his golden hair behind his ear, giving him her sign of invitation, and then he rose too, to be level with her. For a moment they locked eyes and she wondered whether he could see the desire that coursed through her or whether she had to show him once more? Breaking eye contact, Lothíriel finally had the chance and pleasure to let her eyes drink in his body, and what a sight he truly was to behold, all of him – she felt her cheeks burn. 

She slowly stretched out her hand towards him and she realised her fingers were trembling as she laid them across his broad chest; he twitched at her touch and that alone emboldened her. Slowly, so slowly, she took her time to let her fingers explore his exquisite body, teasingly gripping the thin golden hairs of his chest, feeling the muscles of his chest react to her touch, tracing the lines of his rips down, ever down – a little voice in her head wondered whether he would stop her there, but he didn’t. 

At her touch he twitched only once, and then he was all hers; looking up she saw that his eyes had fallen shut, his mouth agape and now it was her move to elicit those delicate sounds from his lips, only they were not delicate, but raw and deep, like a wolf’s growl, and to her surprise she found that those sounds of pleasure from him no longer disturbed her. It amazed her that with the mere touch of her fragile fingers she could bring this mighty warrior-king to his knees and the realisation filled her with delicious power, but before she could have drunk in her new-found power fully, his hand suddenly shot forth and grasped her wrist with surprising force, but she felt not alarmed by it.

Looking up she saw him slowly shaking his head, though a smile played around his lips, and she released him. Instead she then took his hand and raised it to have him cup her breast; the rough flesh of his palm against the sensitive skin of her breast made her catch her breath, and as his thumb caressed her nipple she cried out in surprised pleasure, but her lover gave her little time to recover as his mouth descended upon hers to swallow her sighed moans. Melting into his touch and kiss, her arms came around his neck, craving her own score of touches, craving to be closer to him.

His rough hands roamed her body, first kneading her breasts, then pressing her closer to him with his hands on her back, and then moving lower, to cup her arse, pressing them so close together his hardness met her softness in a clash of delicious sensitivity and gasping moans. Without hesitation then his hands moved lower to her thighs and with a single swift motion he lifted her up and instinctively her legs came around him, her arms around his neck holding on to him and she was reminded of that moment in the stables from before. 

Her lover holding her tightly slowly but surely walked them away from the bathtub and the experiences there and led them towards their bed; holding her still he sat down upon the bed, with her striding his lap, and he leaned into her to deepen the kiss, having her part her lips for him, opening herself up to him. His hands roamed her back and went lower to once again cup her arse, making her moan again. And as his hand cupping her arse held her close to him, his other hand went free, and with an almost frantic movement he turned them around, his free hand used to support both himself and her as he pushed them both further up onto the bed, and only there, in the middle of the bed, did he let go of her. 

For a moment then, he allowed himself and her to catch their breath, and he used it well to take her all in. She was truly a sight to behold: lying beneath him, out of breath; her marvellous, full breasts rising frantically, eyes hooded and darkened from lust, and her thighs unconsciously rubbing together to ease a tension she only recently learned to understand. Feeling himself reacting to the mere sight of her, he realised that he wanted her, and what was more, he wanted her to want him, the same way he desired her, and to experience the same pleasure she had given him.

With a smile he crashed onto the bed beside her, reaching out for her, and that smile only widened when he beheld the way she would melt into his touch, seeing her craving to be close to him, to touch as much of him as she could grasp in return. He had dreamed of this, hoped for it, longed for it – all those nights spent with an invisible wall between them, to look but not to touch; all those memories of nights wasted away in hollow embrace, eyes that shied away from him, flesh that merely yielded but never invited – oh, how he had yearned for her desire, for this, for him, for herself. But, he knew, to want is _not_ to know, and though she was no woman untouched, she was untouched in this, unlearned in the art of love, unaware of her own body and her pleasures, inexperienced in the agency she possessed – but he was patient and he was eager, he would help her discover herself.

‘Tell me what you want.’, he whispered then, again and again, as he merely teased touches to come: fingers that brushed over her skin, ghosting along the sides of her breasts, hands that gripped her back, that pulled her towards him, lips that brushed hers, a touch of flesh but not quite a kiss – and again and again he would whisper, ‘Lothíriel, tell me what you want.’, and when it became too much, too much excitement and too much anticipation, when she could no longer stand his teasing, when she could no longer stand her own passivity, she at last took charge.

With a sigh she reached for him and caught his lips in a sloppy and feverish kiss, and what she still lacked in skill she made up for in eagerness, and with it – not knowing what else to do or how else to proceed – she pulled his paw of a hand back to the very centre of her being to fan the flame he had ignited there, and as he caressed the flower to her fullest bloom once more, kissing and licking and biting her neck, she moaned and squealed and made all the sounds of pleasure. Yet, as she trembled and shook, the pleasure now seemed almost to be made of pain, and a sense of frustration seemed to take hold, for as much as her king gave, he also withheld the release her body desperately cried for, and with a smug smile at that. 

But that woman of his was no longer the meek, passive wife he had come to know, but the lover that beckoned him to her, and now she would only be played with on her own terms. Her arms then shot out and locked around his neck, pulling him down with her, and now she was kissing him hard, with everything she had, with all her little might, and obliging his Queen’s wishes her King came to her, winding himself in her embrace, locked between her thighs, and holding nothing back, he helped them become one, and with a gasp from her and growl from him they joined their bodies.

After the first few moments of overwhelming sensations had passed, they at last began to move tentatively, because for her it was all new, a sensual mystery to discover, and because for him it was overwhelming, a sensual fulfilment of a heart’s old desire. But soon enough, in between kisses and caresses, words whispered and breaths stolen, they fell into a rhythm as old as time, and no matter where one led, the other would follow. Of course, he wanted to go slow, to make it last, to make it good, and most of all, to please her, but he felt the need in him urging him on, faster and faster, and his Queen followed him no less desperately. With her hands on his back and her heels at his arse she urged him on, and as they raced towards that point of no return her little sounds of pleasure, her cries and sighs and moans, were the sweetest music to his ears.

‘Trust me, Lothíriel’, she heard him whisper again then, in between pushes, and his hot breath burned against her neck, ‘Trust me, my love, and I will trust you.’, and she could not breathe, she could not speak, she could not think, she could only nod, giving herself to him fully as he gave himself over to her. Never, never would she have believed that it could be like this – so confusing and thrilling, so wild and so gentle, so teasing and yet so fulfilling. He had held out his hand before, but only now had she found it in herself to take it, and now together, as lovers, they would embrace those pleasures.

And the King learned that his Queen was no less fierce than him, and that she gave as good as she got, meeting him with every push and every thrust, using her sweet summer lips to whisper his name into his ears, and then to cry it even louder, and to hold on to him, with all the passion she had not known before, a passion she as of yet did not fully understand, but she was willing to learn, willing to make this first step into unknown territory, willing to allow herself to fall, willing to allow both of them to fall together, and thus to fall in love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUN FACT #1: So, yeah, Méara Cwén - Horse-Queen! Old English is fun, right?
> 
> FUN FACT #2: I love writing love scenes and / or sex scenes - I just loooooove typing that shit. However, it took me many years to figure out that not every love / sex scene needs to span 20 pages - this one right here, though, very much deserved that amount of pages. You're most welcome.
> 
> FUN FACT #3: I probably use bathtubs so often in my stories because I don't own one and really crave a good old hot bath (especially in the cold winter months) - with or without company, I ain't choosy.
> 
> FUN FACT #4: While editing this chapter, I realised that I could actually end the story here. I mean, it's just the perfect amount of teased happy ending and cliff-hanger to give you that bittersweet feeling. But, luckily for you, I have more to tell of Éomer and Lothíriel - their story ain't over yet.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's up guys, gals and non-binary pals?
> 
> Calmed down from last week's heated reading experience?
> 
> Good, then let's continue this story!
> 
> Thanks for all the comments, likes and such! You people seriously rock!
> 
> Enjoy reading and spread a little love by leaving a comment!

  1. **A** **nd summer follows upon spring**




After this first day of joyful riding, they were out almost every other day, roaming the wild vastness of the Mark, and he came to learn that she was indeed a good and sure rider, and it had only been her fears and insecurities that had kept her from riding. Sometimes on these trips and exercises she would ride with him on Firefoot, in a manner of their first ride, especially in the beginning, and sometimes, she would ride her own horse, a pretty little mare with a white hide and black mane. It had been a gift to her from her husband, a gift to reward her for her diligence in relearning her old skills, once she had regained much of her old trust and confidence, and she remembered well the day she had been surprised with this most cherished gift by her lord and husband …

… _with his hands clasped before her eyes, shielding her gaze from any hidden sight, her king had led her towards the stables at the foothill of Edoras, or rather, he had pushed her on, since he was walking so closely behind her, they would bump into each other more than just once. And what a sight they must have been! Akin to a monster with four legs, four arms and two mismatched heads – one black, one golden – and one pair of hands blinded one pair of eyes, leaving that unique monster to sway and stumble over each other’s feet again and again, leading to fits of laughter in-between cries of more or less serious pain. But no matter the hardships of this stumbling trip down to the stables, and no matter how much she bemoaned the blows their feet had to suffer through, he would not release her from his arms._

_Only when they had reached the stables would he let go of her, and even then only under the heartfelt promise that she would keep her eyes closed until the every moment he permitted her to open them, and with eyes shut fast and excitement gnawing at her just like she was gnawing at her lower lip she waited while he rushed into the stables. Moments of eternity passed by, and had she not guessed by now that he had led her to the stables ( by the direction he had led her before ) , the smell of straw and dung and the sounds of stomping feet and neighing would have been unmistakable._

_And while she waited, she was wondering, wondering what surprise her lord and husband would have in store for her now – perhaps he wanted to show her one of those monstrously pregnant mares that the whole of Edoras had been muttering about for about a month now already, or perhaps even present one of the prized breeding stallions that had been used in the process and explain to her in painstaking, awkward details the proper customs and rules for a successful breeding. But perhaps, she was misjudging her husband here quite wrongfully, perhaps he had nothing so vulgar in mind and instead had decided to play the proper gentleman and to surprise her with a Southern side saddle despite all Rohirrim sensitivities and favouritism towards riding astride?_

_S_ _he had been torn out of her thoughts then when her king returned and after he had asked her to open her eyes, she had realised that all her fears and hopes had been for naught, for indeed he had brought_ _a_ _mare to meet her, but one young in years and with no belly to show yet, and indeed on her back_ _sat_ _a brand-new saddle, made of subtle dark brown leather, polished to_ _gleaming perfection, even if it was not the proper side-saddle she had hoped for._ _For a moment she had been too stunned for words then, which was fine since her lord husband had words in abundance for her, and as she admired the mare before her, rounding her with slow steps,_ _her wide_ _that_ _eyes took in every last detail, she only barely registered her king explaining the tradition of gifting a newly-wed queen with a mare of her own in the first year of marriage, or how prestigious the line was from which the horse before_ _her_ _had sprung, even if not sprung directly from the line of_ _the_ _fabled_ Mearas _._

‘ _I thought you would like her. With hair quite like you.’_

‘ _We are sisters alike then.’, she_ _responded enigmatically then, and after she had finished her appreciation, she proceeded to_ _hold the intense but gentle and trustful gaze of the mare,_ _admitting that her husband indeed had been in the right to state their similarity, given their black hair and fair appearanc_ _e, and given their similarity in appearance, might not a similarity in character and status be a sound conclusion as well?_

‘Cwén _._ _Mae govannen._ _’,_ _was all she had said then, a small, almost imperceptible smile playing around her features, before she had bowed her head in reverence and greeting, and now even Éomer_ _had no longer questioned or even been surprised to see the horse before_ _her_ _bow its head in return._

‘ _A truly queen-like name indeed.’_

‘ _Well, the Queen of the Mark needs a queenly steed, does she not?’, she had countered quietly, the expression in her gaze intriguing, as she had turned to him, smiling still, ‘I do not see why I should carry the title of Queen, and this fair beast should not, when it so obviously is the mistress and Queen of all mares.’_

_She had been smiling evermore as she petted the mare with budding affection, smiling still as she groomed its mane and dusted its hide, smiling as she mounted her new companion for the very first time, laughing as she bade her take her first steps, and yet in her heart she had cried out in fear. For despite all smiles and joys she displayed for him, on the inside she was screaming, panic gripping her, horror striking her. She had never told him of her recurring nightmare, never in all the nights she had shaken with terror had she been brave enough to confide in him – the shame and embarrassment had simply been too great, and in the light of day the nightly terrors had so often been easily forgotten._

_But now she remembered, remembered it with a clarity that shook her to the bones. A horse, crazed with fear and desperation, burning as it went, running towards her, running her down – and in her nightmares the horse was always the same: a black mane on top of a white hide. Oh, she knew it to be a bad omen, a sign of evil that carried some truth within, of that she had no doubt whatsoever. She knew that there was some truth in the saying that Elvish blood bore Elvish gifts, and that her dreams and nightmares were more than just mere figments of her imagination._

_But despite all that, she had smiled for him on that golden April afternoon: what good would it do to unsettle his mind with talk and knowledge of bad omens and ominous futures to come? Knowing the path the waves would wash to had never saved the rock from being struck before, and she had never been as solid as a rock in the ocean, as she herself was like the ocean, rising and falling with its tide, and if that river of her life was to take her down that path, who was she to try and change its course? After all, only the fool believed he could command the currents …_

… it did take her some time to get used to the riding styles of the Rohirrim, and the lack of a side-saddle wasn’t even the worst of it – far more difficult proved to be the unfamiliar custom of bitless bridles. In the South, you have to understand, riding was an enjoyable past-time at best, that was used to appreciate the landscape or to provide the chance for intimate conversations out of earshot or even other far more intimate flings; it was very seldom used for anything remotely practical or professional, other than perhaps the Swan Knights – one thing was clear though, in the South a typical bridle always used a bit stuck in the horse’s mouth, and it was generally used to grant greater control of the horse even for unskilled riders (which most people would be considered to be).

In the Riddermark, however, a person submitting a horse to a bridle with a bit was considered an unskilled rider at best and a cruel blasphemer at worst, for in the Mark horses were deemed sacred and to harm a horse, in whatever way, in whatever circumstance, was seen as a great sin. However, for someone like her, who had used a bridle with a bit all her life, well, it proved challenging, to say the least, to gain control of the animal once she had to sit her own horse, and she doubted not that it was not so much the memory of her riding training or the gracious tutoring of her husband and sister-in-law that was helping her with that (although she would not be so ungrateful as to say so) but that it was her usage of the Elven language which managed to form a quick and lasting bond with her mare, making her very accommodating to her needs and wishes.

Of course, in those first weeks of training, when her confidence and skill had not quite returned yet, her lord and husband had sought to ease her worries with his own advises, well-intended albeit less helpful. Her husband, again and again, assured her that there was no real danger in riding, though she knew this not to be true: why, the last two husbands of her aunt Ivriniel had been tragically killed in riding incidents, although it was a little bit strange how those two could have ever got so close to a horse so as to fall from its back, as one of them had been as fat as a whale and the other a cripple, who hardly, if ever, had left the bed he was rotting in – strange indeed.

So, instead the queen sought her own method of learning and boosting her confidence: by observing her husband and her sister-in-law, their way of movement, their firmness of grip, the tipping of the heels, and also by learning through first-hand touch and experience. For as inappropriately close as their first ride-out together had been, him flanking her with both his thighs and her in-between, it had been a neat means of learning, and, though she would blush to admit so, it also proved a pleasurable reminder of what else those thighs could do.

And of course, it was impossible not to notice the change in her: were once a shy maiden had tiptoed down the halls of power, a strong women had emerged, fully aware of her own strength and fully aware of her own desires. Gone was the princess from the far-away Sea, she was a Queen now that sought to command a horse as well as any discussion in the council, who would claim her right to take control in the echoing workings of power as much as in the quiet of a bedchamber. For after almost every ride they would come together, not as the passionless encounter between wife and husband or king and queen, but as lovers, desperately seeking each other’s embrace, desiring to explore, to experience, to learn, and over time they grew bolder and more comfortable with each other. Sometimes they would not even make it to the bed, or even fully out of their clothes, sometimes they would attend to each other’s needs, playfully, without even really coming together, or they would dare and explore whatever felt good – sometimes he would bury her under him, sometimes have her right then and there, pressed tightly against the wall, clever fingers replaced by an even cleverer mouth, or sometimes she would overpower him, and ride him down as though she were a true Rider of the Mark.

* * *

‘You seem changed, sister, you both do. You seem happy.’

Lothíriel was torn out of her moment of peace and quiet and opened her eyes, and because she had spent quite a few minutes with her head thrown back, enjoying the warming rays of the late April morning sun with eyes closed, she now blinked rapidly, her eyes stinging from the sudden onslaught of blinding light, and the mare beneath her, sensing her momentary unsettlement before she had adjusted herself, grew uneasy and started to snort and stomp a little. And so, for a few moments, she busied herself with calming her mare, _Cwén_ , patting her neck, making cooing noises and whispering quiet words in Elven tongues, and soon enough the animal was calm and steady again. Perhaps, too soon, she mused, as she sat up straight again, meeting her new sister’s forward gaze, and she knew the shieldmaiden expected an answer to her seemingly simple assessment, which, however, spoke to so much more than just mere superficial confidence.

‘Indeed, sister, but only thanks to you. It was your advice that changed us.’, Lothíriel made herself answer at long last, feeling her cheeks burn, and by the way Éowyn smiled at that she knew that she understood. And with that, it seemed, this topic, bordering entirely too close on the far too intimate, was finished, but she had come to know her new sister too well now to believe that she was actually already done with this, and true enough, the shieldmaiden chimed in once more – always polite and restrained, of course (she was still brushing up on her Southern conversational skills), but to the trained ear, the true intent was always quite clear.

‘Well, I, for one, am glad for it.’, Éowyn said, and though she smiled, Lothíriel did not mistake the grave undertone of relief she believed to hear, and she knew better than to begrudge her such a tone. Strangely enough, after that first riding trip some weeks ago, at the end of March, much of the rumours and whisperings surrounding the royal bedchamber had stopped. It appeared as though the misgivings and worries folk seemed to have about that royal marriage of theirs had dissolved into approval, or at least acceptance. After all, the going-ons of a royal affair had always been of public interest, especially if a royal house was in desperate need of an heir; and while the first three months of their marriage had been marred by public pressure (in particular during that time her lord and husband had shunned her bed, for some strange reason), of late, however, people kept a respectful silence. Perhaps her new sister, just like the rest of the Mark, expected things to calm down and even out now; that now, as the royal couple seemed to have settled down, the question of a royal heir was soon to be answered. Lothíriel, for her part, kept quiet on the subject, keeping her own thoughts, hopes and fears to herself, and simply responded, ‘As am I, sister, as am I.’

For a while then, they remained silent, and the only disturbances of the silence between them were the pieces of advise her sister-in-law gave her, to remind her of the correct posture or to instruct her on the right type of grip for the reins, always given in a respectful tone, kind and not patronising. And then again both women were entirely focused as they both put their horses through their paces; Lothíriel, intent on putting her relearned skills into practice, and Éowyn, intent on checking in on her new sister’s progress. And it was only when both women were out of breath, their horses’ flanks pearling with sweat, that the shieldmaiden sought to break the silence once more.

‘I can only hope I will be just as happy.’, Éowyn threw in then, seemingly out of the blue, but Lothíriel could tell instantly that this thought must have been on her new sister’s mind for a long, long time, and there was an uncertainty in her voice that was so unlike her. The queen took notice, and her brows creased in confusion. While her sister-in-law would join her sometimes on a riding trip, especially when regal duties kept the king from attending, to keep her company, more often than not, however, the shieldmaiden seemed too caught up in the preparations for her upcoming wedding and departure in a few months time. It was a wondrous thing indeed that, despite all her sister’s claim of rejection of womanly dreams and girlish fantasies of the perfect wedding, she spent rather a lot of time busying herself with the whole subject: the pattern and cloth for the wedding dress, the style of her hair, the chosen customs and guest list for the ceremony, the cloak for her husband-to-be that she had planned to embroider as part of a secret bet, the other dresses she wished to take with her to her new home, but also how many horses she wished to take with her, and whether one sword, scabbard and whetstone would be enough – or perhaps, a whole arsenal would last longer …

All in all, Lothíriel had had the impression that her sister-in-law was crazed with excitement for the wedding, but perhaps, the shieldmaiden had learned more than just a thing or two from her and managed to fool even her, ‘Doubting your happiness already? Are you having cold feet?’, Lothíriel threw in at long last, trying to gauge her sister’s troubled thoughts, and yet cautious to keep her tone light, Éowyn, after all, was as hot-headed and short-tempered as her brother, ‘I thought your were madly, blindly, _annoyingly_ in love with my cousin.’

‘I _am_. You know that I am – _everybody_ knows. And Faramir knows that, too. That’s not the point.’, the shieldmaiden threw in, laughing like a neighing horse, appreciating her queen’s teasing remarks, but after the laughter had subsided, she continued with more earnest, ‘You know – surely you should know me well enough by now to understand that marriage has never been more than a passing thought in my mind, and an inconvenient one at that. It is no secret that I never wished to marry. All I ever wanted was to ride and fight and win honour and renown. I never thought I would find myself here. I never thought I would look forward to the day I would be wed – but I do. Isn’t that strangest thing?’

‘So, if you are in love, and you are counting the days to the wedding with excitement – what’s with all that gloom? I mean, most women are a little afraid concerning wedding and marriage, but you’re positively tense as a bowstring.’, Lothíriel threw in, confusion palpable in her face, and she bade her mare halt to better engage in this discussion with her new sister, and Éowyn, clearly at a loss for words, stopped her stallion as well. For a few minutes, she seemed like a fish out of water, opening her mouth ever so often, only to close it without having said a single word. Lothíriel raised an eyebrow, musing silently that the Rohirrim, apparently, were truly a people of few words.

‘I never wanted to marry, sister, so I never thought about marriage – _never_.’, she began then at last, and it was clear how hard it was for the mighty shieldmaiden to put her thoughts and feelings into comprehensible words, and all the queen could do was try and follow her sister as she was stuttering her way to an explanation, ‘I never thought I’d be a wife – I – and you are so – and the ladies of the South are so – and I – I’m just not – I don’t know if I ever could – ’

‘You’re worried you won’t be a good wife?’, Lothíriel offered then, deducing what she could from her sister’s ramblings, and when the shieldmaiden blushed in the colour of her maiden blood, she knew she had pierced the very heart of the matter.

‘I love him, sister, more than I could possibly say.’

‘But you’re afraid that won’t be enough?’

‘You tell me, Lothíriel – will it be enough?’, the shieldmaiden countered then in that forward Northern manner, voice clear, gaze piercing, and it would have been enough to rattle anyone, especially if that one was a princess from the South. Now it was the queen’s turn to blush hard while she was at a loss for words. It was true that the last few weeks had changed much and more in the relationship of the royal couple, but to speak of love? They had grown to care for each other, to trust each other, to be intimate in every way – but love? Theirs was a political marriage still, and no amount of intimacy would change that – love had never been the foundation they sought to build on their life together. But Éowyn – her sister’s reasons for marriage were different, so would that not mean that their nature of marriage would be different as well? In a marriage of love, shouldn’t love be enough?

‘Have you told my cousin of your worries?’, Lothíriel threw in, opting to steer the conversation into another, more productive direction rather than to outright answer her sister’s challenging question and not so subtle insinuation.

‘To give him yet another reason to tuck his tail and run away from me? Screaming?!’

‘Éowyn, he would never do that.’, the queen insisted, countering the shieldmaiden’s panicked fears with sound conviction and even a little something extra, ‘My cousin knows who you are. He _loves_ who you are. He’s not gonna care how perfect your curtsey is – ’

‘ – will you stop it with that curtsey already!’, Éowyn cried out but she could not hold back her laughter as she remembered the amusing discussion they had been having about that topic again and again, and Lothíriel knew she had succeeded in easing at least a few of her sister’s concerns with regard to that matter.

‘It’s perfectly understandable to be nervous, sister. Like death, birth and war, marriage is always the door to a new path, and what we don’t know scares us.’, Lothíriel continued then with a more serious tone this time, hoping that this time the shieldmaiden would be more open to her words, ‘I can only give you the same advise you’ve given me once: talk to him. And who knows? Marriage may open the door to a new path, but that need not mean that the door is shut to other paths of an old life.’

And just like that, her downcast shieldmaiden was smiling again, and it was not a false smile as those court cringers donned in their quest for gossip and influence and manipulation, not yet anyway, it was true and honest and it came from her heart. Perhaps, not all worries had been eased, but at least some doubts had been alleviated, and in any way, what kind of shieldmaiden would her sister be, if she were to shy away from a challenge?

For a while then the two women were quiet and simply contented themselves with riding beside each other, without saying so much as a single word. Instead they took in the warmth of the late April sun of this late morning, putting their heads in their necks and closing their eyes, leaving their horses to walk leisurely and at their own will. Morning turned to noon and then to afternoon within minutes, though it felt more like a short eternity, for some more than for others. It was the shieldmaiden then who cut through the silence again.

‘What would you have done, Lothíriel? If you had had the choice, what would you have done instead?’, Lothíriel opened her eyes and at first only blinked rapidly, as much attributed to the blinding afternoon sun as well as her initial confusion. For a moment the queen truly had no idea what her sister-in-law was inquiring about, but then she recalled their conversation from before and she understood. _If she had been given the choice not to marry, what would she have done?_ Well, if she had been given the choice, she definitely would not have wanted to marry, of that she was quite sure – but what else? What more than that?

It was quite clear to her what her sister would have done – the shieldmaiden undoubtedly would have taken up the life of a wandering warrior, roaming the Northern wild, always on the lookout for another fight to win renown; or perhaps become a loyal bodyguard in her brother’s shadow; or perhaps she would even have wandered south, to become a glorious curiosity, the first female knight, rising far above the limitations of her sex. But she herself? She was no knight, no warrior; she had no fighting spirit and no lust for glory or renown; the blood and gore of battle was distasteful to her, and direct confrontation an abhorrence. For her peace and quiet were her paradise, to be far away from all this death and hate, this spiteful betrayal and these gossiping hyenas, freed from the stifling constraints of social life and expectation, where she need not be a lady or a daughter or a wife, where she could simply be herself, a woman of her own – free like the river. And like the river, she would have no need for brutal force or clever tricks, she would simply make her way through the world, and if her path were barred by obstacles, she would simply find another way – and like the waves of the ocean, she would simply retreat with the ebb and recede back into sea from whence she had sprung.

‘I would have taken a boat and steered it out onto the open sea, without hesitation.’, the queen spoke at long last, still somewhat lost in thought, a longing smile on her lips, and as she spoke her gaze wandered along the horizon, taking in the steppe of grass that stretched as far as the eye could see, like a sea of green, so alike and yet so different from the sea she had once called home, ‘To sail the Sundering Sea for all eternity, yes, I think I would have liked that very much.’

‘That sounds … lonely.’

Lothíriel turned to her new sister and even if she had not been able to discern her expression so expertly, from years and years of practice at court, to read even between the most minute changes in the lines of face and mouth and eyes, she would have known by the distinct hesitant swaying of her voice that the shieldmaiden had a whole range of other words in her head with which to describe the queen’s dream of another life – words not quite so polite or gentle. But the queen only smiled; her sister was a wholly different person with a wholly different set of desires, and a life of peace and quiet and solitary was simply not hers, ‘Not lonely, peaceful.’

For a very long while then, both women were quiet again, and each seemed lost, and happily lost, in their own thoughts. Perhaps they were thinking on their conversation, wondering upon the implication of advises they had given, or the ramification of information they had revealed or withheld. Or perhaps each was mulling over the dreams of another life they could have had, wished to have had, and perhaps never would have; perhaps the old, uncomfortable feeling of regret was gnawing away at each of the women, filled with the longing for another life, or perhaps relief took its place, and each was glad to be given the challenge of an extraordinarily ordinary life.

And so it was more or less jolting when Éowyn spoke again, and the hesitation with which she spoke and the care with which she chose the words, made the queen wonder for how long the shieldmaiden had been wrestling with herself whether to speak at all, ‘You know there is some peace to be found in marriage as well. A sort of quiet understanding. And there are those that say marriage is an ocean sailed upon by love.’

‘Look at you, you poet! And here you were telling me marriage was only a passing thought to you.’, Lothíriel shouted then, laughing as she turned to the shieldmaiden, and her sister-in-law was not too trained and polished yet so as not to laugh at her own thwarted attempt at peeking behind the curtains of her brother’s marriage, and as both women laughed, the gleaming in their eyes was enough challenge to try and race each other back to the hill fortress of Edoras, and with a last cry they both spurred their horses into a gallop, ‘All hail Éowyn, herald of love and matrimony!’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUN FACT #1: Alright, so Aunt Ivriniel, right? You're getting there, right? You catching up on her game? ^_^
> 
> FUN FACT #2: So, yeah, Éowyn is worrying - I guess, that shieldmaiden is not as confident as she would have the world believe?
> 
> FUN FACT #3: Just wanna say thanks again! Stay warm, stay safe, stay awesome!
> 
> FUN FACT #4: Thanks to the advise of one of my readers, I'd like to point out and stress that bridles with a bit are technically not hurting horses. I just use this idea that they do because it serves a purpose story-wise.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, here we go again!
> 
> Thanks for all the reviews, likes and subscriptions!
> 
> Enjoy reading and spread a little love by leaving a comment!

  1. **Old customs die hard …** **and new ones die even harder**




‘Beltane?’

Lothíriel turned around after she had hung her saddle on the saddle post, confusion twisting her features, but she was only met with even more confusion marring Éowyn’s face when her sister-in-law stepped beside her to stow away her saddle as well. Only moments ago, when the shieldmaiden had helped her loosen the straps of saddle and reins, she had absent-mindedly chattered on and on about one of the great annual feasts of the Mark that would be celebrated at the beginning of May, pointing out with an almost shocking amount of banality the significance of and preparation that went into the role of May Queen.

‘You never heard of it? Don’t you celebrated it down in the South?’, Éowyn asked then, and though she tried to keep her tone light and indifferent – and Lothíriel secretly applauded her for trying to put all her lessons in courtly conduct into practice – as though the whole affair were of no importance at all, the queen could tell by the widening of those green eyes, that forehead suddenly lined in frowns, that it was in fact of quite some importance.

‘I have heard of it, or rather read about it, but only in passing. The Faith of the Valar does not place too much weight on it, and in the Faith of Ulmo we have other feasts.’, Lothíriel answered quickly, watching with some growing concern as her sister-in-law huffed and puffed quite dramatically while taking the brush to her horse to dust it off. Dusting off a horse was not a particularly physically tiring or exhausting activity, so the shieldmaiden’s heavy breathing and blush-red face, gave the queen cause for quite some concern, ‘Sister, tell me of the role of the May Queen.’

‘It’s not a big deal, Lothíriel, really.’, the shieldmaiden countered forcibly nonchalantly, but the queen did not believe her sister-in-law for one second, after all, the queen had been a lady of the court ever since her maiden blood had put an end to her maiden dresses, and Éowyn might manage a decent curtsey and polite conversation, but she knew not how to lie and perhaps never would. Raising an eyebrow as a sign enough of her silent questioning, Lothíriel held her new sister’s wavering gaze, and under the pressure of her steel-blue eyes the shieldmaiden caved in quicker than a young foal at its first steps, ‘Okay, it is a big deal.’

‘How big of a deal are we talking about here exactly?’, the queen asked cautiously as she took up a brush of her own to join her sister-in-law in brushing off the horses, and thus they now faced each other, each tending to their own steed, furtive glances exchanged across the beasts’ backs. And the longer the silence stretched out between both women, the more nervous the shieldmaiden grew and the more anxious the queen became, and even the horses sensed restlessness of their human companions, shuffling with the hooves on the straw-covered ground, until at last Éowyn looked up and the defeat and shame twisted her features into a painful little smile, ‘It’s kind of one of our biggest traditions.’

And there it was, the hidden weak spot that had the castle’s wall tumbling down or rather the queen’s crown breaking and falling down, and with an exhausted sigh her shoulders dropped and Lothíriel closed her eyes. It would do her no good now to blame her sister-in-law for not telling her sooner; the queen knew that had she wanted to know, had she really cared to know, she could have found out sooner. But back then, before her marriage, and even in the first few months, she had stubbornly refused to learn more than she already thought she knew, had stubbornly refused to open up lest she would have had to change. In truth, she had no one to blame other than herself, and the only thing she could do now, was to try and keep the worst at bay. Looking up and straightening her shoulders, the queen gave up a sigh before setting to the task, and it was well done, for the shieldmaiden, by now, seemed to have talked herself into a veritable waterfall of words.

‘ … and that’s not even the main attraction! Honestly, I can’t fathom how you didn’t notice all the excitement and preparation – the whole of the Riddermark has been in an uproar since the beginning of April, and your handmaid Aida, in particular, has been talking about it non-stop, and her sister – well, you know that pair well enough by now to – ’

‘Tell me then, sister, and I will try to keep up and do my best.’

And thus it went, between brushing off the dust from the horses’ hides and checking their hooves for little stones and dirt, Éowyn talked and talked. She explained that shortly after Spring had seen a fragile momentum of equinox and shortly before summer reached its zenith on Midsummer’s eve, the feast of Beltane was observed. Held at the first of May, it celebrated fertility and love, the birth of summer and the peak of life – and in the Riddermark it was especially used to mark the birthing of the first foals of the year. Throughout the Mark Maypoles were put up, great fires were ignited, and girls and women would dance around them with flowers in their hair; the first May foals and soon-to-be-foaling mares would be driven through a lane between the fires to bless them; mead and meat would be drunk and eaten and shared in plenty around the fires, and brave young men would try and break in wild stallions as a rite of passage.

She also explained that on this day marriages were often held and blessed; Lothíriel, however, understandably confused, pointed out that neither _she_ had been married on that day nor would Éowyn be married on that day, and the shieldmaiden went on to explain that indeed not all marriages were held on that day, and exceptions were sometimes made. Lothíriel, for example, holding with the Southern Faith of Ulmo, was married in the heart of Winter, as their raining season was considered their season of fertility, and secretly the queen felt moved by the heart-warming gesture of her king and husband even before he had called himself thus. And Éowyn, marrying into the princedom of Ithilien, where the Faith of Varda, Lady of Stars, was held in high esteem, would be married on Harvest Day in September, a day considered especially holy to the Ithilians. The important thing was, as the shieldmaiden pointed out energetically, again and again, that new marriages were blessed on this day, as it was a day celebrating fertility above all other things.

‘By fertility, you mean – ’, Lothíriel questioned vaguely, the continuous repetition of that word making her wonder what in particular it entailed, and though an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach foretold the true meaning of the word, the queen refused to accept any other truth beside the facts stated by her sister-in-law. The shieldmaiden smiled at her new sister’s lingering, half-finished question, knowing full well that the Southern princess was too much of a lady yet to put into words what others put into deeds. Having put away the brush, Éowyn returned with a cat-like grin and jumping eyebrows, declaring matter-of-factly, ‘Sex, of course.’

At that, the queen’s face twisted into a mask of shock; eyes wide, cheeks redder than blood, and she turned to her task of dusting off her mare with a passion that spoke of her desperate attempt at covering up her own embarrassment, and perhaps even to bury this whole awkward discussion under such a mundane activity – and if the shieldmaiden had not grinned before, she did now; laughing wild and loud, throwing her head back, more akin to a horse whickering wildly. But for all her amusement, Éowyn was not cruel, and after she had had her fun, she turned to her task with more severity again.

‘Well, it’s not _just_ about sex. It’s actually all about _this –_ ’, and with these words the shieldmaiden reached out towards her sister-in-law, and Lothíriel, too stunned by this intrusion in her personal space, not understanding her intentions, actually backed away only to be met with the solid flanks of her mare, _Cwén_. Éowyn, however, already knowing her new sister too well, took no offence at her instinctive reaction, and instead simply smiled and put her hands on her belly, and at last the queen understood. _A feast for the blessing of the soon-to-be-foaling mares after all_ , she thought, touched in an odd mixture of warm gratefulness and cold, depressing despair.

After that, Lothíriel quietly went back to her task of grooming her mare, absent-mindedly listening to her sister-in-law going on and on about the rest of the particularities of the May Day celebration. There was one thing she spent a noticeable amount of time on, but what made it truly suspicious, and what made the queen prick up her ears to listen more closely, was the obvious effort with which the shieldmaiden tried to appear casual and indifferent about it. Lothíriel sighed, resigned to play along; Éowyn was no true lady of the court after all, and no amount of lessons would ever change that – manipulation was simply not her forte.

‘So, the _Great Ride_ , as you call it, it goes back to your gods – _Béma_ and _Vána_?’

‘YES!’, Éowyn cried then, in a mixture of laughter and relief, and one could see just how much she had hoped for her sister-in-law to catch her bait and engage in the conversation, ‘I mean, yes, quite good of you to pick up on that.’, and with another strangely nervous and very obviously false laughter, the shieldmaiden soldiered on, ‘The _Great Ride_ actually evokes one of their most famous tales. H-how much do you know exactly of our great god and goddess?’

‘Well, not much, to be honest.’, Lothíriel answered slowly, now halting in her task as she turned around with caution in her eyes and suspicion on her mind. _Something strange is going on here_ , she thought the moment she caught her sister-in-law biting her lip nervously, and thus as she continued she remained wary and guarded, ‘Just the story of how they met. Éomer told me about it some while ago.’

‘Did he now?’, Éowyn snorted and the forced smile on her thin lips was telling enough; now, Lothíriel was actually worried – worried that there was more to all of this than just a national holiday forgotten. Even if she had not been brought up the way she had been, even if her aunt Ivriniel had not taught her in the wiles of the Southern courts, even if she had been blind and deaf – even then she would have been able to tell that her sister-in-law was painfully straining herself not to reveal more, but finding herself failing miserably, quite like a rider failing to reign in a tempestuous horse caught in one of its moods, and the queen could feel the shieldmaiden slipping as she slowly caught on to what her new sister might be insinuating.

‘Yes, he said the god heard her singing as he was riding by, and beckoned by her voice and enthralled by her beauty and graces, he took the goddess as his wife.’, the queen paused at this, eyeing the shieldmaiden with no little amount of suspicion, spying for any sign that might reveal the real reason behind her sister’s so very obvious and tense bearing, before she continued, choosing her words with a care that spoke of her years of training in the art of subtle manipulation, ‘I believe he tried to make a statement about me … and him.’, and after yet another pause, carefully placed, the queen went for the kill, ‘Why? Is there more to the tale?’

‘Well, you could say that.’, the shieldmaiden giggled nervously, lips frozen in a strained smile that didn’t reach her eyes, as her eyes were jumping from side to side, looking everywhere but at her, as though one look into her eyes would reveal the true depth of their scheme, and thus her sister continued with the desperate ramblings of a drowning man clinging to the last rock before the crash of the next tidal wave, ‘Yours _is_ the tale – at least, how it is told to children and more … sensitive folks. In less civilised circles, well … ’, the shieldmaiden looked up then, an uncertain smile playing around her lips, barely veiling the grin that threatened to burst free from its grip, as though unsure whether or not to continue, and although Lothíriel knew, just knew that she would regret this, the queen nodded nonetheless.

‘Well, they don’t call it the _Great Ride_ for nothing – only, in our tongue, to _ride_ … well, how can I say it, well, it can have different meanings – some more carnal than others … ’

‘Okay, I got it.’, the queen threw in quickly then, catching up to the meaning lurking to jump out behind that cheeky grin her new sister showed, but the shieldmaiden – whether out of spite or because perhaps she truly did not hear her queen talking, begging her to stop? – simply went on.

‘I’m not sure which version I like better?’

‘There’s no need – ’, and again the queen tried, and again all her begging and all her attempts were for naught.

‘The version where the proud Rider finds her asleep in a bed of flowers – naked, may I add – and subsequently lays down upon her awakening to deflower her in what becomes their marriage bed – ’

‘I said, I got it.’

‘ – or the version where the Rider chances upon the goddess bathing in a forest lake – NAKED, _must I really add that by now?_ – and as punishment for his spying she bewitched his steed Nahar to have a thinking mind of its own (and thus he became the first of the _Mearas_ ), and it took the Rider many moons until he tamed his beast once more, and after that? Well, the Rider returned to the goddess in the forest to give her a good ride of her own.’

The shieldmaiden finished her drawn-out tale with wolfish grin and a wink, addressing her sister-in-law with a levity and good humour as though she had not just breached all manners of protocols of what constituted acceptable conversation, ‘So? Does that answer your question?’

‘I believe that question was answered before you even started.’, Lothíriel answered with a sigh filled with as much resignation and exhaustion as she could muster, and with closed eyes she pinched the bridge of her nose, shaking her head, wondering where exactly they had taken the wrong turn in this conversation to end up with tales of rutting gods and goddesses, ‘So, let me get this clear: if the celebration evokes the tale of _Béma_ and _Vána_ , does that mean – ’

‘ – the May King and May Queen become God and Goddess for one night, and they … become one.’, the shieldmaiden finished for her, a wicked grin crowning her lips as she emphasised her point to a horrified queen by linking her fingers together, making it abundantly clear what the nature of the ceremony, this so-called _Great Ride_ , would be. Lothíriel’s eyes widened in shocked embarrassment and she finished her task of dusting off her mare in silence and much less thoroughly than she usually would have done, wanting nothing more than to leave these stables, her sister-in-law and this uncomfortable conversation behind her.

And yet, as she stored away the brush and left the box, sensing more than really seeing her new sister smile at her obvious embarrassment, she couldn’t help her mind wandering and for the briefest of moments she saw flashes of the things that could be, and if she blushed this time, it was not because of embarrassment. But no, she thought vehemently, as she quickened her pace towards the gates of the stables, savage rituals, primitive rutting in the woods, lecherous superstitions – none of this was acceptable for a lady of the South, and no matter how dire the situation was, no matter how much this kingdom needed an heir, no matter how much she needed a child, she was not so desperate yet as to resort to such rustic measures.

‘It’ll be fine, Lothíriel, really.’, her new sister threw in as she followed her quickening steps, unaware or unwilling to accept that the queen was actively trying to outrun this conversation and this issue, ‘The ritual itself will be quite the private affair. There’ll be no need for witnesses. Not anymore, anyway.’

At that the queen spun around to stare at her sister-in-law and the shieldmaiden lost it at that and started laughing, the widened eyes and expression of obvious shock of this sensitive lady was simply too much for her. It was simply too easy to tease her, and that almost took the whole fun out of it – well, almost. But then again, it also wasn’t such a laughable idea after all, the shieldmaiden thought, and then the smile quickly died down again.

After so many weeks of quiet, rumours about the royal couple’s bedchamber had started to emerge, leading to more than just a few council members demanding proof and evidence of not only the consummation of the marriage but the … ah, productivity of it. It was useless arguing with these old, bent men that the marriage of her brother and his wife was … ah, well and truly consummated, and repeatedly and progressively so, but without the announcement of a pregnancy the only thing they would care to see was a partnership that yielded no fruits. Éowyn wasn’t as naive to the workings of the world as some would think her to be – she knew quite well that her sister-in-law was chosen to be little more than just a wife to her brother, and the politics behind it had less her role of queen in mind and rather her ability as a broodmare. It was a sad and unforgiving fact of life that for women in their world, sometimes, the only worth they possessed was in their ability to lie on their backs and … well, to do some _foaling_.

‘And the king always partakes?’

Looking up, the shieldmaiden was torn out of her increasingly frustrated thoughts, and because of it, she had not noticed her sister-in-law proceeding in questioning her, and now she scrambled to get her head back in the mindset to be able to keep on explaining to her what their dear and dumb lord and king should have done weeks ago. And it was precisely because of this distraction that the shieldmaiden did not notice the look of suspicion on her new sister’s face or the wary tone or the careful choice of words with which she had phrased her question. She was like the wild foal not minding the lasso until the noose tightened and the trap was sprung.

‘Well, yes and no. I mean, not always – with the line of succession secured, or with old age, the ritual is passed over to younger men. So, no, the king does not _always_ partake.’

‘But Éomer has.’

And there it was.

It was in that moment that Éowyn understood that she had wandered into a trap of her own making. Turning around slowly (as she had been too caught up in her own thoughts to realise that she had long overtaken her new sister), she was met with a long and unyielding gaze, and it was not a lady she faced now, nor her sweet and sensitive sister-in-law, but a queen – hard and cold and unrelenting as the sea she seemed to have sprung from.

‘Lothíriel – ’, Éowyn started then, cautiously, when she understood, at last, where the conversation had been heading to all along, but the queen before her would have none of it. It was too late for appeasement.

‘Are you saying he has not performed that custom ever since he became king?’

‘Lothíriel, please, you have to understand – ’, the shieldmaiden begged, running towards her new sister, trying to take her hands, trying to make her see, trying to make her listen, trying to make her understand that the world was not a simple place and that the situation before them was far more complicated than either of them would have liked to paint it as. It was ironic, really, that it was the truth-loving, black-or-white, principled shieldmaiden that now tried to educate the morally ambiguous, grey, unprincipled politician on the workings of the world that cared little for right and wrong, or good and bad, or for the promises made or the heartbreak it brought when they would be unmade.

‘No, I don’t have to understand anything. But I will.’, the queen countered calmly then, almost eerily so, taking a deliberate step back, out of reach for her new sister’s touch or any of her soothing words, and Éowyn knew that tone, because she had heard it before, again and again, in the first days after they had tried to get to know each other, in the first few conversations, when the walls between them had been high and mighty still, and even now, in later conversations, whenever the mask of the lady was put on again, whenever her new sister felt unequipped to deal with the newness of her new home or the uncommon social situations she would find herself in. It was a defence mechanism, nothing more – and yet, the shieldmaiden could not deny that it hurt; to see all that progress of trust and openness, of humanity, disappear within an instant, to be replaced by this cool and calculating politician.

And yet, this here felt different, and she knew it; it was a way of defence, but not from overwhelming, unfamiliar social practices, but from hurt – and even if her new sister would probably try and deny it, Lothíriel _was_ hurt. Hurt by the suspicion that the man she started to feel for had been with other women and would, perhaps, continue do so; and even though she would surely try to deny that it caused her pain, stubbornly clinging to the illusion of a solely political marriage, she lashed out in anger. It was not a logical response, but the heart was not a logical place; it was a place for feeling, not for thinking, and what she felt, was hurt. But still, it was more than that, but that Éowyn wasn’t able to discern, ‘Éowyn, tell me everything.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUN FACT #1: As I've been working on this story for many years, I've also developped a very distinct idea of the cultural background of these societies and I'm just dying to let them enrich the story.
> 
> FUN FACT #2: I must admit I haven't done any writing this week at all - so far. I've been caught with this show, "Beauty and the Beast", and what can I say? That lead character? What a beast! (HAHA!) So, yeah, I feel a little nervous - because right now I feel like someone trying to lay the tracks with a quickly approaching train coming up behind me.
> 
> FUN FACT #3: Well, what can I say? I'll just go back to my show now. *hides behind the laptop* My partner and I live in a non-judgemental household, as we like to call it, and as I always say: the time you enjoy wasting, is not wasted time!


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are back again ... time for a girl's trip! ;)
> 
> Thanks for all the reviews and likes and all the love!
> 
> Enjoy reading and spread a little love by leaving a comment!

  1. **The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world**




The rain pattered down from a grey and dreary sky like a waterfall of stones hitting an ocean of drums. In between the torrents of water rushing down, soaking the earth, the last snows of a passed winter covering the ground were turned into brownish grey mud, and combined with the drumming sound of thunder slashing through the air, this day appeared more like the end of the world than a late April morning. Therefore it was curious that amidst all this bleak weather and unyielding nature two female riders were making their way through a landscape ravaged by a spring storm and the last bitter remnants of an unforgiving war, going at a painfully slow speed, mindful of the path that the rain and ice had turned into a slippery, unsteady road made of mud, and every careless step could mean the horses slipping and their riders very well breaking their necks.

‘Lothíriel, we shouldn’t be here!’, Éowyn tried to tell her through the downpour as they came to a halt just outside a village, but even the mighty shieldmaiden had to shout to try and make herself understood, but the queen – having grown up as a lady of the Southern courts, her ears were trained to pick up on even the faintest of whispers – heard her nonetheless, ‘You should be at Meduseld, preparing for the feast, learning to understand the intricacies of the rite – ’

‘As far as I’m concerned, _sister_ , I am here to learn about it right now, wouldn’t you agree? There’s still plenty of time left. You’ll teach me all I need to know on our way back. Don’t fuss, Éowyn, I’m a fast learner.’, Lothíriel cut in, and by the fine lines in the corners of her mouth one could almost think that she was smiling, as though the whole situation and worry of her sister-in-law held some amusement for her, even though such malicious glee would be highly inappropriate for a lady of the South or the poise of a queen, but looking over to her sister-in-law it wasn’t hard to understand her source of amusement. Because while the shieldmaiden, wrapped in her heavy cloak, trying to shield herself from this deluge and yet soaked to the bone, looked as miserable as a wet cat, the queen put her head back and closed her eyes, humming contentedly as the raindrops washed over her and for a brief moment she imagined herself back at her home in Dol Amroth, standing at the lower cliff-side, just as the sea spray of the flood tide drenched her with a salty kiss in the warm evening sun.

But then, just like that, the moment was over, and with it the memories of mild sunsets at the sea were gone and she was back in the Riddermark on horseback in the middle of a rainstorm. Blinking, she lowered her head, wiping away the wet streaks the rain had painted on her, drawing the hood of her own heavy cloak down lower over her face. It wouldn’t do to lose oneself in memories of times gone by; they had come here with a mission and she was bent on seeing it through to the end, no matter the objections of her sister-in-law, ‘Now, let’s get this over with, shall we?’

At this, both women quickly dismounted, and with it Lothíriel’s momentary superiority was gone. Because while the shieldmaiden dismounted with the experience of years and years of riding, jumping off gracefully and landing on the ground as sure-footed as a cat, the queen had a lot more trouble to follow suit. As Lothíriel swung off her mare, she misjudged not only the momentum of her swing but the steadiness of the ground as well, and thus, as she landed, she first failed to find her footing, then slipped and would have very nearly fallen ungracefully on her very royal bottom, had it not been for her sister-in-law catching her in the last second. As the shieldmaiden cocked an eyebrow regarding her poor performance, Lothíriel rose again to stand on her on two foot, smiling nervously, embarrassed at her own clumsiness, aware of the blush threatening to creep up her neck despite the cold rain still pouring down on them.

‘How do we know which hut it is?’, the queen called out as she adjusted her riding attire to make herself look more presentable than the image of a drenched cat she had to be showing right now, and for a moment she feared that her sister-in-law had not heard her over the thunder crackling in the distance. But as the shieldmaiden grabbed the reins of her own mare, and then handed the reins of the queen’s mare, _Cwén_ , over to her, she called out to her, just as loudly, trying to drown out the storm raging around them, ‘Only one way to find out.’

And thus both women set off further down the path that would lead them directly into the village, which was actually no more than a settlement of a few huts, structured into three or four circles, with only a wide open space at the centre for market days and not even a wall of straw around it. As the two of them entered the village, they could see smoke steaming out of the vent holes in the thatch roofs and candles flickering in the windows, indicating that, with a rainstorm raging – in contrast to them both – these people were smart enough to stay inside.

As Éowyn knocked on door after door, asking for a woman by the name of _Ætta_ , Lothíriel pulled her heavy cloak tighter around herself, trying to retain what little warmth she still had, given that by now she was wetter than a fish in the ocean. Still, the queen mused, even as miserable as she felt right now, it was nothing compared to the ways things were all around her. Looking at the houses, she saw their poor craftsmanship, looking at the people inside, she saw their poor living conditions, their gaunt faces looking back at her, eyes that barely saw her.

She had not known that it was that bad. Of course, she had known that the conditions were _harsh_ , Éomer and the council had painted the picture quite vividly; that the food storages were devastated by the miserable harvest and the unforgiving winter months, and that the people were still haunted by the remnants of the war – but she had not known that it was this _bad_. Had she been a superstitious person, she would have believed these people to be little more than ghosts – and perhaps, that was exactly what they were: ghosts, phantoms, reminders of her failure to save this kingdom that was now her own.

Of course, the trading deal they had made, had meant that the immediate crisis had been averted, and while the first grain shipments had already arrived, a lot more of them had been lost to the Southern variants of spring storms or, if transported by land, had even been stolen or destroyed in various different highway robberies – and if they couldn’t contain the lawlessness that had spread across the lands over the months, then all her efforts would be little more than a drop in the ocean. All in all, all they had achieved so far was momentary respite to a slow but inevitable collapse of a whole kingdom and its way of life.

And still, despite all of this, despite all the tragedy and loss and devastation, these people had retained a love for life and a humble gratefulness and a hopeful outlook for the future that simply astounded her. When she had laboured away as a healer in Minas Tirith during the siege, she had come face to face with the ugly wounds desperation could inflict: once she had seen a soldier fling himself from the battlements, choosing the quick death over the torturous butchery at the hands of their enemy, and another time she had heard of a father killing first his children and then his wife to spare them a slow and painful death, may it be through starvation or massacre, and then, of course, there were the noblemen and noblewomen, whose lands had been overrun, who had chosen the kiss of their own blades rather than to kiss the hands of their conquerors. So, to see a people so ravaged by war and hunger and loss, and then still to fight on and to not give up, it filled her with admiration and a determination to persevere even in the face of apparent failure.

_A great king_ _is_ _in need of a green queen_ , it was said, but, she mused, even more so, a country was in need of a great leader; one who would make decisions in the name of the people for the good of the people, one who would swallow any false pride and bury old grudges, temper justice with mercy and pursue the right choices, even if they were hard. Could she be such a leader, she wondered then, could she be such a queen? And as she saw the weary but kind smiles of the people that opened their doors to them, that offered hospitality when truly they had little or nothing to give, she asked herself the questions then that had pestered her, in the back of her head, ever since she had made the decision to come here. _What am I doing here? Why have I really come here? What is it that I have truly come here to do?_

Lothíriel was torn out of her thoughts when Éowyn touched her shoulder before telling her that she had found the woman they had been looking for. Signalling with her hand (because even shouting at the top of her lungs had become impossible with the rainstorm at her back) to a hut at the far end of the village, the shieldmaiden led the way as they trudged across the wide open centre of the settlement, where a statue made of wood, carved in the likeness of a prancing stallion, demonstrated the pride these people still took in being men and women of the Mark. And again, as the queen forced her way through the heavy rain and wind, her thoughts were invaded by the same questions: _What am I doing here? Why have I really come here? What is it that I have truly come here to do?_

‘Ready?’, the shieldmaiden asked then, as they stopped before the door of the hut, after she had tied their horses to a post next to the house, looking over her shoulder at her sister-in-law, giving her one last chance to tuck tail and run before it would be too late, but the queen was determined to see this through to the end, and so she nodded slowly, not trusting her voice not to betray her nervousness. And as the shieldmaiden knocked on the door (pounded really, there was no tactfulness in that woman …), Lothíriel closed her eyes for a moment to take a deep breath, trying to quieten the questions that kept on hammering in the back of her head. _What am I doing here? Why have I really come here? What is it that I have truly come here to do?_

Just then the door opened with a creaking sound and for a moment the light of the fire coming from inside blinded her, and only after blinking rapidly could Lothíriel see again, and once she did, she needed only a moment to assess what was before her. Standing there on the doorstep was a woman not much younger than herself, with straw-blonde hair and kind green eyes, and with a pang of jealousy Lothíriel had to admit that she was quite the beauty. Lothíriel listened then, and watched quietly, as Éowyn took charge and explained at the top of her lungs, over the thunderous pattering of the downpour, that they were weary travellers, caught off guard by the rainstorm.

Now, _technically_ , that _was_ _not_ a lie, but Lothíriel gave her sister-in-law credit for trying nonetheless. Granted, they had had quite the dispute during their journey here on how best to introduce themselves – with the shieldmaiden, of course, favouring the direct approach. The queen, however, had feared that if they were to “run down that door like a crazed stallion” – figuratively speaking, of course – they would have no chance of getting the answers they had ridden all those miles and all those hours to find. So, she had decided to encourage her sister-in-law to practice her newly-found courtly wiles, and to be fair, the shieldmaiden was not half bad if she wanted to be, and it was only her ears trained by years and years of Southern small-talk that managed pick up on that sweet little innocent lie.

The woman – Ætta was her name, the queen reminded herself – welcomed them in quickly when she, at last, understood the request they were making, or perhaps, she simply grew tired of trying to understand what the shieldmaiden tried to shout at her over the sound of thunder in the background. Stepping over the threshold and into the warmth, Lothíriel was for a moment too overwhelmed and glad to be out of the cold and wet rain to think of much else, but once she had recovered a little from the sudden shift in cosiness, she took in the humble but homely interior of the hut with a keen and interested eye.

It was nothing grand but it felt like a home with a lot of heart. Two rooms, one in the back (probably the bedroom) and the main hall, with a weaving loom and spinning wheel in one corner, a butter churn and other cooking utensils in another corner, below that a door in the floor boards (probably leading to the pantry in the cellar, burrowed in the earth), and lastly, a hearth at the northern wall with memorabilia on the mantelpiece and three rocking chairs in front of it – so, apparently, the woman didn’t live alone.

‘Thank you so much for your hospitality, madam.’, Éowyn said sweetly, effectively pulling Lothíriel out of her thoughts, and it was not hard to see that the way the young woman humbled herself before them, repeatedly trying to perform a less than perfect curtsey, made the shieldmaiden more than just a little uncomfortable, and being called “milady Éowyn” was even worse than that. Of course, the commoner had recognised the shieldmaiden at once, since she was well known and beloved by all her people, though she didn’t seem to recognise her queen, but that was no surprise, after all, the queen was still new and had hardly ever left the confines of Edoras before. However, the fact that she had not been recognised yet gave Lothíriel a wicked idea, and as the shieldmaiden turned to introduce her, the queen sought to put her plan into action, ‘And this here is – ’

‘Your Queen.’, Lothíriel spoke resolutely and with the voice of authority, as she threw back her hood to reveal her raven hair and grey-blue eyes. As a result of that, several things happened at once. The eyes of the woman, Ætta, widened and she blanched before she proceeded to throw herself before her queen in a gesture of utmost humility; at the same time, Éowyn turned to her with an expression of utmost annoyance, rolling her eyes at the queen and the little prank she pulled. Lothíriel, for her part, only shrugged with a saccharine smile, before she, too, decided that she had carried her joke too far, and so spoke, not the least to cut short the ongoing homage the young woman at her feet paid to her, ‘Rise, please, there is no need for that. We are here only for a little chat – no need to waste time on formalities.’

After that, Lothíriel vowed to leave her shenanigans be, as this was neither the time nor the place nor the occasion for it, and indeed, as the commoner first took their cloaks to be hung up for drying, and then led them to the rocking chairs by the fire and supplied them each with mugs of warm and sweet honey-mead and a few crusts of fried bread, the queen truly lived up to her title – calm and graceful and regal. But they had come here with a mission, after all, and so the queen dismissed the pleasantries soon enough to cut right to the point.

‘I must apologise, madam, but I fear we have not been entirely honest with you. We are not here by chance; in fact, we came to find you.’, Lothíriel paused for a moment, to allow for the young woman to have the first wave of shock and surprise wear off, even if not the confusion, and one could see in her face the question of why a queen would ever seek out a commoner, and her in particular, ‘As you are well aware, I’m sure, the feast of Beltane is coming up soon, and I am to perform the rites for the very first time, and as I am not yet accustomed to your traditions, Ætta, I would like to ask a few questions, if I may.’

‘O-of course, my Queen.’

‘I am glad to hear it.’, Lothíriel crooned with a charming smile, well aware that the young woman before her was no less confused than before, and the queen could understand. After all, Beltane and its rites were no secret; everyone in the Riddermark knew them by heart and could have answered her questions, so it was more than just understandable for this common woman to wonder why in the world she would be asked about it. But Lothíriel only smiled at the sight of this question showing in the young woman’s face, knowing the answer to that question quite well, ‘Now, forgive my indelicacy, but is it true that not quite two years ago you yourself partook in this rite?’

The young woman could only nod, and it wasn’t hard to see why she was left speechless all of the sudden. Slowly but surely understanding spread across her face, starting with her eyes in which the realisation dawned that the queen and the shieldmaiden had sought her out for a very specific reason. Naturally, there was fear gradually creeping into the woman’s gaze, and though Lothíriel knew she should feel ashamed of it, she could not help but feel powerful for being able to still elicit such terrified emotion in another person – that even when she was all but a fish out of water, she could still manage to be in her element, ‘And is it not also true that you partook in this rite with my husband – your king?’

At that, the young woman shrieked only once before she _literally_ flung herself at her queen’s feet, uttering apology after apology, tears clearly audible in her voice, sobs dulling the words so much it was hard to understand anything at all. Lothíriel, however, remained unimpressed by the woman cowering at her feet, and without so much as looking at her, the queen turned to her sister-in-law and it was clear that the shieldmaiden was not amused by the way things were currently developing. For a moment, both powerful women had a silent exchange in which eyes and brows and foreheads and other facial muscles mimicked all the words that needed to be said between them.

_Don’t even pretend you didn’t know this was going to happen_ , Éowyn seemed to say, her head shaking slowly, her eyes shooting daggers.

_I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about_ , Lothíriel seemed to say, her smile as saccharine as the taste of poison.

_Sister, I might not have grown up to be a lady of the Southern courts, but even I know when I’m being lied to_ , the shieldmaiden seemed to answer with a sneer of her own, before her eyes hardened and turned to slits, _Now make this right._

_Fine_ , the queen seemed to answer, rolling her eyes as she gave in to her new sister’s demands and reached down to the woman still cowering at her feet.

‘Please, there is no need for that.’, the queen said as she took the young woman’s hands and helped her up again, moving her to the rocking chair next to her, to have her sit and calm down, ‘Please, call me Lothíriel – formalities seem so superfluous … given that both you and I shared the attentions of our king.’

‘My Qu – Lothíriel … Queen. Forgive me – ’, the young woman, Ætta, shrieked once more, and again she tried to fling herself at her queen’s feet, ready to grovel, ready to ask forgiveness for the wrongs she believed to have done, ready to apologise for the mistake she was pushed to believe she had made. The shieldmaiden, of course, was not happy about this, but more annoyed rather than truly aggravated this time; but as Éowyn rolled her eyes at her sister-in-law and her continuing verbal stabs and quiet provocations, Lothíriel at last relented, because as amusing at this little game was, it was also chilling to behold. Of course, the queen knew it was more than a little innocent fun, and that there was a cruelty behind it that even shocked her – and again, the questions from before came unbidden to her. _What am I doing here? Why have I really come here? What is it that I have truly come here to do?_

‘Hush, now. I’m not here to judge you.’, Lothíriel quickly spoke then, trying to push the bad thoughts out of her mind, but as she leaned down to help the woman back to her rocking chair again, she wondered if her words even held any truth in them at all and if her reasons for being here were as innocent as she would have liked it to be, ‘I only wish to understand. Will you help me?’

Nodding weakly, young Ætta sat down, and it was not hard to see that the woman was close to tears by this point, overwhelmed and fearful of whatever punishment her mind came up with for the perceived slight she might have caused unwittingly, and the queen, at last, felt moved by this and appalled at the cruel game she had been playing. Logically, she knew this woman was not to blame for the feelings of hurt and anger that smouldered in her heart, or that there was any reason at all to be hurt or angry, but feelings were not reasonable, and she could not have told her heart to stop feeling any more than she could have ordered the tides to still and be no more. So, that only left her to try and keep the innocence of that woman in mind as she slowly, carefully closed in on the very reason and the very question she had come here to address.

‘I must ask this – and please forgive my lack of tact here – but has any flower blossomed from that seeding?’, Lothíriel spoke then, quietly, gently even, trying to address this topic with as much care for the woman before her as she could muster. However, the woman before her (Ætta was her name, the queen reminded herself) seemed not to understand her polite metaphor, and for a second the question flashed through her mind whether all Horse-people were as slow-witted as their king. But then Lothíriel was all queen again, and tried her question once more, this time with more urgency and less euphemism, ‘Have you had a child, is what I’m asking?’

‘Yes.’, young Ætta breathed then at last, and it sounded less like an answer and more like a breath she had been holding, and though her eyes widened for a moment in shocked realisation, she seemed to relax in the end, giving in, abandoning her embarrassment and simply opening herself up completely, ‘A son.’

‘A son.’, Lothíriel repeated, but her words were a mere echo, as they sounded hollow and empty, bereft of all emotion that would give them life, and yet it was just a shadow compared to the emptiness that slowly but surely started to take roots deep inside of her until it filled her completely and to the brim, until she felt so full of this new empty feeling she feared to break into a thousand little pieces. Her king had a child, and what was more, a son – the much longed-for heir; what would have been her task, her duty and her prerogative, had been accomplished already, but not by her, by another woman, a Rohirrim woman. Closing her eyes for just a moment, just enough to try and hold back the tears that started to prick in the corner of her eyes already, the queen could not help but think of her father, and she already dreaded the harsh judgement he would pass on her if he learned of her failure.

‘Please, sister, this has gone too far already!’, Éowyn threw in, having had enough at long last, rising so quickly she very nearly knocked over the rocking chair, and it was not hard to see how uncomfortable this whole situation seemed to her, but clearly it was more than just that. Perhaps, the shieldmaiden feared the ramifications of this revelation, the inevitable fallout of this piece of news, the way it, undoubtedly, would break the princess’ heart. Or, perhaps, more than that, she feared the way the queen would react; with anger, perhaps, with wrath – after all, who knew what a woman falling in love was capable of, if she learned that she had been betrayed (as she would undoubtedly see it) by the man she was falling in love with?

‘Has it?’, Lothíriel repeated quietly, but there was no calm in that quiet tone of her voice, there was outrage, there was indignation, and yes, also anger, but it did not burn hot and bright; it was an anger unlike any the shieldmaiden had ever seen, it was cold and dark and remote, but no less frightful, and it was enough to render Éowyn speechless, even if only for a moment, ‘Have you known about this, _sister_? Has _he_ known about this?’

‘It doesn’t matter, Lothíriel – ’

‘Doesn’t matter?!’, the queen scoffed, rising, and the smile that sprang to her lips was more of a growl than an expression of amusement; and this time her voice had actually spiked in volume at least, and the hot anger she now showed was at least something the shieldmaiden recognised and knew how to deal with – after all, try to put out a fire with your bare hands and you will get burned, but if you let it burn out on its own, it will have nothing left to reignite itself. And indeed, as the queen settled back down in her rocking chair again, she continued calmer this time, almost eerily calm, however, ‘Our king has had a son, even if not one by his queen.’

‘It’s more complicated than that, Lothíriel.’, the shieldmaiden pointed out emphatically, trying to keep the situation under control, despite the fact that the situation looked very much out of control as the queen raised an eyebrow questioningly and while the young woman, Ætta, flung herself to the ground to cower at the queen’s feet once more. It looked as though the shieldmaiden was completely and utterly out of her depth and ready to explode at the sheer overwhelming nature of the situation, monumentally regretting ever having agreed to take her sister-in-law here.

‘It’s not complicated at all, actually.’, Lothíriel countered then with the calm of a hundred-feet-deep lake, and Éowyn already feared to have put in motion the beginnings of a total political disaster that would lead to the end of an alliance and the end of a kingdom; but to her infinite surprise the queen didn’t storm out, call for a divorce or lunge at the young woman at her feet – instead, she simply reached out and took the hands of the young mother, kissed the back of her hands and led her back to her rocking chair, ‘A woman has had a son, which leaves me only to congratulate her.’

It was hard to tell who of the three women in this room was more surprised at this turn of events. The young woman, Ætta, was on the very brink of tears here, sobbing almost uncontrollably, but not with fear any longer but with joy, so great was her relief at being spared her queen’s wrath. Éowyn, for her part, was breathing heavily, almost panting, as she fanned herself, wiping the sweat drops off her forehead; she appeared as though she had been running all the way from Edoras to this little hut here, so great was her exhaustion at this emotional storm, going from apprehension to comfortableness to uneasiness to straight-up, frightful panic and then to relief. So, damn straight, she felt exhausted; she felt as though she had experienced more emotions in the short time she’d spent in this hut than she had ever felt in all her life before. As for Lothíriel, the queen leaned back, and as she looked from woman to woman, seeing the relief and emotional exhaustion, the questions from before returned once more and this time she felt almost as if she had the answer to all of them.

_What am I doing here? Why have I really come here? What is it that I have truly come here to do?_

_A great king is in need of a great queen._

‘May I see him?’, the queen asked then reservedly but not without kindness; the other two women seemed understandably taken aback, though no longer surprised at this point. Éowyn closed her eyes in a motion much more akin to rolling her eyes, before groaning, as though the level of annoyance had reached almost painful heights by now, and pinching the bridge of her nose, she was clearly and utterly done with this whole situation. Ætta, although overwhelmed at first, soon smiled and nodded slowly, before getting up and leading the queen to the other room in the far back of the hut.

The other room was the bedroom and it was as sparsely furnished as the rest of the home – a hearth at the far end, at the other end two beds, one big enough for two people, one smaller, with only room enough for one person. Other than that, there was only a stool and a small wooden table with a ceramic bowl for a quick morning wash; and between the beds and the hearth a cradle made of wood stood. And there in the little cradle, sleeping peacefully, lay a little boy, hardly more than a baby but with features already clearly pronounced and, most of all, with thin wisps of the most beautiful golden hair – hair quite like his father.

In that moment, for the very first time in her life, Lothíriel felt – for lack of a better word – _motherly_. However, those feelings of motherly love were not directed at the babe sleeping in the cradle – not even as it whimpered and turned in its sleep, then snored and finally started to suck at its own thumb. Instead, she felt as though she had just become a mother to thousands and thousands of people, because as she looked at the babe in the cradle, she didn’t just see a child asleep, she saw a solution to many different problems. Of course, _logically_ , she understood that this child in the cradle could neither feed the people of the Riddermark nor eradicate the lawlessness, but just as she had clutched at any straw that day she had fallen through the ice, so did she do now. There before her, lying in the cradle, was the answer to a question any monarchy faced with coming to an end would utter, the fulfilment of a fatherly-ordained duty, the duty of any wife to her husband: a child, and not just any child, but the possible heir to the Riddermark – even if that child, that heir, was not of her own making.

‘I-is he healthy?’, Lothíriel found herself saying, and at first she wasn’t sure if Ætta had heard her, because the myriads of different emotions – from joy to sadness to relief and even jealousy – rushing down on her, had her all choked up, but behind her she could hear the young woman shift and one could sense the change in her. Her stance relaxed, growing more and more comfortable, and when she spoke to answer, she was calm and open, tender even, as any mother loving their child would be, ‘He’s a good, strong boy. I’ve named him Aldred, after my father.’

Lothíriel tried to blink away the tears as she regarded the child in the crib, a shaky smile playing around her mouth. _Aldred, old adviser? Well, that name just wouldn’t do for a prince of the Riddermark._ Taking a step closer to the cradle, to get a closer look at the child, the queen must have stepped on a loose plank then, because a creaking sound from the floor ripped through the peaceful silence and with that the boy in the little bed was wide awake and fussing and crying.

It all happened very quickly then. Out of the corner of her eye Lothíriel could see Éowyn jump up from the rocking chair, sword ready in hand, years and years of fighting training instinctively kicking in, and she whipped her head from side to side, trying to figure out from where the attack had been coming. Young Ætta, meanwhile, reacted just as instinctively, moving over to her crying child, to pick it up and soothe it as any loving mother would.

And as the queen saw her standing there, the young mother and her little boy, rocking him back him and forth to calm him down, she felt, for just a moment, a new and strange emotion aching in her heart, and she realised that this right in front of her – _she wanted that_. Not because it was expected of her as a wife, not because it was her duty as a queen, not because it was an efficient way to cement her position as wife and queen, but because she wanted this … simply because she wanted it: to have a child and to be mother, and what was more, to be a mother to a child she had with the man she –

‘W-would you like to hold him?’, Ætta asked then, hesitantly, unsure, quiet even, but the words were enough to pull Lothíriel out of her thoughts. Looking up, the queen saw the young mother eyeing her with a shy but inviting gaze, as she held the babe in her arms, moving towards her, and as she did so, the child’s glance settled on her for just a moment, and for just a moment, the queen was faced with bright green eyes – green eyes she had met before.

‘N-no.’, Lothíriel declined quickly, instinctively backing out, the situation quickly becoming too much, becoming too overwhelming, because no matter how much she might wish for it, imagine it, daydream it, this was not her reality, this was not her life, and this was not her child – and whatever joys and sorrows, hopes and dangers might come with it, this was not for her right here and right now. Perhaps her sister-in-law had been right all along and it had been a mistake coming here.

‘W-we are intruding, forgive us. I-I can see we have taken up too much of your time already. We will take our leave.’, Lothíriel rambled, stumbling over her words just as she was almost stumbling over her own feet while trying to leave this situation as quickly as she could, despite the protest of young Ætta. Turning around the queen stormed out of the bedroom back into the main room where Éowyn – who had relaxed back onto the rocking chair and, _bored_ , decided to play around with her sword – jumped up, startled by the sudden change in the air. Confused by what was going on all of the sudden, the shieldmaiden looked to her sister-in-law, trying to understand why they would be leaving so abruptly, but the queen wouldn’t meet her gaze and so Éowyn shrugged it off and simply readied herself for a hasty departure.

However, the two women were almost out the door when Lothíriel stopped dead in her tracks and slowly turned around once more, calming herself in the process, forcing herself to regain her poise, reminding herself that she was a queen and that she had a duty. Turning around, she looked at Ætta, that young mother and her child, and as she spoke the tears she could not shed could be heard in her voice all the same, ‘Are you in need of anything, madam?’

‘No, milady, we are very well provided for.’, the young mother answered, smiling as she repositioned the baby boy in her arms, ‘My parents take care of us.’

At that, Lothíriel returned the smile, though whether the smile was out of relief or genuine happiness or simply because she had no other way to process her wildly confusing emotions, she did not know. But whatever she felt in that moment, she decided that it wasn’t important in that moment; important was only that she was a queen and that as such she had a duty to this woman and her child, and so, the queen spoke one last time before leaving the hut and the revelations inside of it behind her, ‘If the need should ever arise … anything you need, you may call on me.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUN FACT #1: OK, so, did I tell you that I'm a sucker for drama and angst? No, well, sorry.
> 
> FUN FACT #2: I actually didn't plan for this storyline to happen but my Éowyn just went and talked herself into a mess and I couldn't just leave it at that. It's just too juicy.
> 
> FUN FACT #3: So, I really enjoyed writing a good girl's road trip chapter, hope you enjoyed it, too - cause next friday the king and queen will have to sit down and have a serious talk. Psyched, already? Well, I am, so I better get back to writing then ...


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh! I'm back!
> 
> Sorry for the delay!
> 
> Shout-out to the one critical "Guest" - I used your criticism to get this chapter done! Hope you don't mind ...
> 
> Enjoy reading and spead a little love by leaving a comment!

  1. **Better the lie that heals or the truth that hurts?**




The rhythmic sound pattern of a whetstone being dragged across a deadly blade cut through the quiet evening air, and was only disturbed by the sporadic cracking of a log in the fire and the languorous, almost lazy, noises of hair being brushed. Lothíriel sat at her dressing table, already in her nightgown, combing through her black tresses with about as much interest as a horse might mind the flies at its arse, totally lost in thought. Looking up, she caught sight in the mirror of her lord and husband sitting on the edge of the bed, his prized sword in his lap, working away at sharpening it, as he was wont to do in the evenings, and, halting in her brushing, the queen abandoned all hope of distracting herself from the inevitable thoughts that her agitated mind came circling back to, again and again. It was the night before the feast of Beltane and still she hadn’t found the courage to address the little secret she had stumbled upon in a quiet little village not too far from here.

After their return from their little adventure trip almost a week ago, Éowyn had not grown tired of imploring her to not bring up that subject with the king – and who could blame her for that? After all, once those words were spoken and those questions asked, they might echo from the royal chambers throughout the Golden Hall of Meduseld, and from then on who knows were else to? A royal court certainly had no shortage of curious eyes and ears, hungrily lapping up whatever meagre morsel could be provided for their gossip. Of course, Edoras was not comparable to Southern courts in that regard, but even a Northern court would most certainly erupt in scandalous outrage at the revelation that the king had an illegitimate bastard son.

Or so she thought at least. The shieldmaiden, of course, had tried, again and again, to explain to her that their traditions of faith had little to do with dynastic entanglements, that at Beltane it were not any man and woman lying together to make a child, but for a god and goddess to come together to give life to the land. And granted, it felt almost comical to make a fuss over one child when logically, _mathematically_ speaking, dozens upon dozens of Beltane-bastards surely lived and breathed and ate and drunk … and just _existed_ all over the Riddermark. So, yes, perhaps she was blowing this whole thing out of proportion and no one would actually blink twice at the news of a boy born out of wedlock whose father just happened to be a king.

But if this whole business was not a big deal, then why couldn’t she stop thinking about? Perhaps it was because this issue had less to do with politics and far more to do with matters of the heart; yes, perhaps, it was not so much the political scandal she feared – if indeed there even would be one – but rather the ramifications of learning that he had known about this and had hidden it from her? Because, she would be lying if she said that she wasn’t hurt by this, more than perhaps even she herself knew – to have her trust betrayed so early on in their relationship, after she had just allowed herself to open up to him, to allow him into that locked-up fortress that was her heart. Even the most beautiful of flowers in spring could wither when the late march frost caught up to them – and the bloom of their affection had only started to blossom recently, barely more than a sapling, hardly more than a sprout. And what gardener would waste their efforts on a withering flower?

Yes, perhaps, that was the thing Éowyn had feared would happen: that the queen would be so offended, so affronted, so _heartbroken_ , that she would turn her back on this marriage as a whole? That, in her disillusionment, she would reject her king and with him his kingdom, that she would turn her back on it all, that she would turn back and flee back to her own country? _If only she could_ , the queen thought bitterly then; but no, she was under no illusion, she knew there was no chance for her to return home now, to live the life of a princess again. Her father had made that abundantly clear – she could hope for no safe haven or open arms from him. Of course, that still left her brother Amrothos, and she had no doubt in her mind that he would care little and less for what other people would think of him or her if he took in his shamed, divorced younger sister – but no, he had his own burdens to bear and no matter how much she missed him, she would not trouble him with her own.

All of that, of course, was based on the assumption that this indiscretion of her lord and husband would have her leave, would have her turn her back on everything the two of them had accomplished so far – an assumption, of which she was not certain, not even now. She had not been so naive, of course, to think that a man like him – a king, a warrior – had not been with other women before her. _By Ulmo_ , she knew she should count herself lucky that he had not fooled around with other women during the weeks he had shunned her bed and remained faithful to her so far – in the South, she knew, such courtesy was not often granted between husband and wife.

And yet, it was not so much the knowledge that he had been with other women that pained her so much, but that the evidence of it, the living, breathing proof of it, was being rocked and cradled in a little village not so far from here, and this made it more than just a simple dalliance of a bachelor king – it made it an act of betrayal, a humiliating blow straight to her face. She was his wife, his queen, and yet it was upon a simple lowly peasant girl that he had bestowed his kingly seed, and not upon her, his wife and queen. Of course, she doubted not that the world would choose to see it differently; they would see it as her failings as a woman for not being able to bear a child, a failing in her duties as a wife to her husband for not producing a son, a failing in her duties as a queen to her king for not producing an heir. As per usual, the woman would be to blame.

Oh, she had no doubts whatsoever that her lord father would be the kind of man to blame her for this, she thought with no little sense of macabre amusement; oh, surely he would be furious if he learned of this – a lowly common girl foaling a child, and a son at that, while the rightful queen had nothing to show for it. And a part of her could not deny that she felt an almost wicked amount of malicious glee at the thought of infuriating her dear lord father with that, of humiliating him like that, of ruining all his ambitious plans with her shameful failure – and that at least was some consolation in her precarious situation, that no matter how unpromising her own prospects felt, the thought of making life harder for her father (even if only a little, even at the cost of her own self) made it a lot easier to suffer through it. So there’s that – a secret that could destroy her marriage, a scandal that could endanger the diplomatic relations between two countries, a daughter’s malicious payback for a father’s unwillingness to answer injustice with her very own idea of justice. Did she miss anything?

_Only her heart, perhaps_ , the little voice inside her whispered with a sigh, and at last she relented, her malice, that had spiked at the thought of punishing her father with this, at last dissolved back into this feeling of hopeless fatigue. She knew it would do her no good to put up with endangering her own happiness just so she could make her father’s life miserable; that was a cheap, amusing way of life at best, and a pathetic, hollow one at worst. So what did that leave her with, if she actually were to look at it from the perspective of her own happiness? The one man she would have given her heart to had betrayed her; a man she respected, a man she felt for, _deeply_ , had humiliated her in one of the worst ways possible, by denying her the one thing that could have made her life easier and instead had given it to another, and, in her eyes, far less deserving woman. And then he had doubled the betrayal by hiding the evidence from her – _but was that really what happened_?

That was just the question, wasn’t it? Had her king known all along that there was a secret child out there, a child he intentionally chose not to tell her about? Or was it rather that he had not known at all, and had been as oblivious to this secret as she had been? In a way, she couldn’t quite decide what was worse. Either he had kept this from her on purpose – because he knew so well what it would mean and didn’t want to ruin the image of the honourable man that he had paraded for her or because he thought of her so lowly, thought her so simple that she would not be able to unearth such a monumental secret, that her hurt feelings in this matter were of no consequence to him? Or he had not known about this at all – because he was a man like any other, a man that perceived women as fleeting, pleasurable distractions rather than meaningful pursuits, a man that would lie with a woman for a night and then forget about it as soon as the cock crowed in the dawning of the day; such a man, surely, could father a child and then not know about it. So, what was worse – cunning secrecy or insensitive carelessness?

_Only one way to find out_ , the voice in the back of her head whispered again.

‘I’ve been out riding with Éowyn a lot lately.’, she started cautiously, _oh so_ _casually_ ; her words chosen with such tactical care, somewhere between mindless ease and light-hearted small-talk. She was quite sure, had she been with her own people, friends of questionable morals and even more questionable companionship, born and bred at the courts of the South, such forceful light-heartedness would not have managed to fool anyone. But here in the North … these people did not know how to lie; as they had no need for it, no stomach for it, they also had no sense for it – where they saw only silly pleasantries, she was already waging war and spying into more secrets he would have ever thought he could have held.

‘You’re getting the hang of being a Horse-Queen?’, he chuckled lightly as he commented, not even looking up, still more focused on sharpening the sword than on her, and there was something in the way he spoke, that sense of boyish smugness that made her shudder as a sense of something much darker tugged at the back of her mind. But no, she thought vehemently, he was nothing like the beasts she had crossed paths with before and it wouldn’t be fair to compare him to them.

‘You could say that.’, she simply said then, because she knew not what else to say – all the other responses she had in that moment were tainted by that twisted feeling in her gut stemming from her twisted experiences with smug men in the past. No matter how hurt she was by what she had come to learn in that hut, she didn’t want to see him in that light and yet that feeling in the back of her mind overshadowed everything. And so – because the pressure to vent became too much with every passing moment – she found herself speak again, less subtle this time, ‘We’ve been to the village of Hurstborough. Just a few hour’s ride from here – ever been there?’

‘Can’t say that I’ve been – but it’s in the Westfold, right? So, we’ll probably pass through it on our way of the tour.’, he answered absent-mindedly while inspecting the sword for any specks of rust or brittle failure, and thus he did not see her face twist at the mention of the first-year tour. _That fucking tour_ , she thought bitterly, _that bloody fucking tour_. Of course, it shouldn’t agitate her like that, the mere mentioning of it, and, normally, it wouldn’t, but given all that she had learned over the past two weeks, well, her nerves were a bit on edge regarding everything and anything that concerned her representation as queen and wife. And that was exactly what this tour was: a representation – a representation of her as his wife and queen.

It was an old tradition for any new queen, to make a tour across the Riddermark on horseback, to travel from settlement to settlement, to be seen by the people, because for these people to be seen was to be believed, and if she were not seen, she would not be considered a real queen, or at least not a queen of the people, and sure enough, these people would take offence at that. It was a ridiculous notion, she mused, feeling the mindset of the Southern princess peak through the eyes of the queen now and again, that a regent would have to legitimate oneself like thus, but it was a beloved tradition – a tradition that would have her paraded around like cattle, but still a tradition – and she intended to keep with the traditions of her people as much and as best she could, anything to make herself the queen she needed to be, right? Of course, usually, that traditional tour would have been made within the first month of marriage already, but, unfortunately, other things had kept getting in the way of that, and, given her secret reason for this conversation, it would seem that things would just keep on getting in the way of that …

‘Did you two enjoy yourselves out there?’

The question pulled her out of her increasingly desperate thoughts and for a moment she was too stunned to register what she had been asked. Blinking she looked at her husband still hunched over that stupid fucking sword of his, although she found herself glad for once that he was distracted and not really paying attention to her, because otherwise he might have become suspicious, given how far and deep she had gotten lost in the maddening circles of her own thinking again.

‘In a way.’, she answered slowly then and for the first time since she had decided to do this, to actually have this conversation, she found herself having second thoughts, doubting her very own determination, her need to know the truth. It was a beautiful thing that they had, that thing between them – so would she really want to threaten that by her self-destructive quest for the truth and the reasoning behind it? Perhaps her friend Saelwen had been right when she had warned her not to get too attached, when she had said that she had been burned too often, that she would rather drown out the flame than risk burning one more time, that she would forever be the destroyer of her own happiness. Back then she had merely laughed wryly at her friend’s warning words, but only because the idea of happiness with a man – any man, and a warrior and Northerner at that – had seemed a ridiculous notion at best and a frightening one at worst, like a deathly fear one laughed about rather than to acknowledge the very real danger, but now, now she was not so sure. Perhaps her friend Saelwen had been right all along, and that she herself would prove to be the greatest adversary to her own happiness, that she would rather seek to ruin her own chance at happiness from the inside rather than on the off-chance that it might be threatened and destroyed from the outside by somebody else – like the defeated warrior almost that sought to end his own life before the enemy had any chance to capture him. And perhaps, Éowyn had been right, too, to question whether love was really enough – not that she was thinking of love here, it was just …

Perhaps it was not enough to care for each other as long as lies and secrets stood between them?

_And what about your own secrets and your own lies?_ , a voice inside her whispered then, chilling her to the very bone, and looking up she caught sight of herself in the mirror, and as she beheld the reflection of that beautiful woman, she easily saw past the pure and regal and perfect poise and instead saw the shadows of her past and present haunting her eyes. Had she been a different woman, she could have overlooked her king’s secrets, and instead of minding them, would have simply carried on in their spring-like bliss. Had she been a different woman, she would have had no need for walls or secrecy, and instead of sabotaging her own happy end, she could have lived happily ever after, blissfully ignorant of the truths and secrets they both carried. But then again, had she been a different woman, she would not have survived and overcome what she had seen and done and lived through, and she would not have been herself. So, all she had now was to see it through to the end, and so she pushed down all those nagging feelings of guilt and despair and shame and jealousy and pushed on no matter what, ‘Yes, yes, in fact, we happened to make a new acquaintance up there.’

‘Hmm.’, he only hummed in response, making that typical non-committal sound he always made when he was not really paying attention to her, as so often more focused on the sword in his lap than the words she was speaking or the trap she was slowly but surely springing. A part of her surely felt sorry for him in that moment; with his golden mane covering half his face, and all of his concentration on the sword he was sharpening again, how he handled it with the utmost dedication and care, it made him seem so innocent and unassuming in that moment, and she felt almost guilty for the way she was about to ambush him – but sure enough, she did not let that deter her in the end.

‘Yes, a woman named Ætta – a very kind-hearted woman who offered her hospitality.’

‘Hmm.’

‘I believe you two have met before.’, she continued then, turning around slowly, wanting to catch his reaction with unveiled clarity, and she was using his continued half-hearted attention as the momentum she needed to go in for the kill with little remorse for the possible damage she left in its wake, ‘Some two years ago, if I’m not wrong. Or should I rather say: _almost to the day_ two years ago?’

In the hollow silence of her pregnant pause, she waited for the statement to sink in, and indeed, at long last, he understood. The king froze in his movements, whetstone and blade stuck in their last grinding position, and when he looked up and met her gaze, she could see the different emotions play out on his face in a series of shock, confusion, comprehension, shame, and then anger. Cursing under his breath and closing his eyes to try and keep his fury at bay – but failing miserably to do so – Éomer threw blade and whetstone back onto the king-size bed, not minding the damage both bed and blade might suffer from it, not caring, not giving a fuck at this point anymore. She had anticipated his anger – a rather predictable reaction on his part, to be honest – and even if his quick temper flared dangerously high here for a moment, she didn’t flinch, not even once, not even a little.

‘Éowyn.’, he growled then, at long last, pressing out the name of his beloved sister through clenched teeth with the bite of iron poison, and as he jumped up from the bed and started to pace around the chamber, he mouthed a long string of foul curses under his breath, before he turned to address her again, ‘She put you up to this?’

Her king zeroed in on her, his eyes, narrowed to slits, perhaps hoping to extract the information from her with something as simple as a direct question, but she gave him nothing. Instead she held his furious stare with a long and hard gaze of her own, and where he was all fire and smoke, she was all chill ice and deep water, calm as the treacherous sea she seemed to have sprung from – he could not contend with her. Like a green boy he had wandered into her trap, lashing out like a wild beast against the snare, thrashing about like a fish caught in the crafty fisher’s net – she knew if she only let him rage long enough he would exhaust himself soon enough and then she would have him where she wanted him, and with it, all the answers she needed.

‘I swear, if I get my hands on that meddling sister of mine, I will – ’

‘You will do nothing.’, she cut in curtly then, forgetting herself for just one moment, forgetting her own clever plan of letting him vent until he was too drained to put up much of a fight anymore, but even the very idea of her new sister catching the heat for her own undertakings, well, it just didn’t sit well with her, ‘Éowyn did nothing I didn’t tell her to do. I fact, I had to order her – ’

‘You ordered her?!’

‘I am Queen, am I not?’

That shut him up. Initially, he had chuckled, seemingly amused by the idea of her pulling rank with a shieldmaiden, possibly trying to steer the conversation into lighter territory, but she wouldn’t catch the bait, and now he clenched his teeth to restrain himself from making any further quips. Quite like a young boy really, one who had thought to joke his way out of a stern talking-to, only to be sobered up by a painful slap on the back of his head. But it wasn’t only his jovial attempt at deflection that had been shot down here, it was almost as if his fiery fury had burnt itself out as well, and in the uncertain quiet that his fizzled out anger had left behind, it left room enough for her to fill it with a quiet fury of her own.

‘So, why didn’t you tell me?’, she spoke quietly then, her voice calm and collected, her gaze unyielding and calculating, and she was intent on watching his reaction, eager to catch the lie, eager to catch the truth – she had to look into his eyes to know that, to know which was which, ‘Did you think I wouldn’t find out? Is that why you left it to Éowyn to explain all this stuff to me?’

‘Lothíriel, listen, that ritual – I know I should have been the one to talk to you about this, it’s just – perhaps, I thought – _fuck_ , I don’t know what I was thinking, alright?’, he threw in, stuttering his way through a desperate explanation, and stumbling even more over the words en route to a naive, even if well-meant defence, ‘I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, OK? These aren’t your traditions – I wasn’t sure if I could ask that of you. I had hoped – I don’t know, I had hoped to find a way around that, maybe – ’

‘Oh, I’m sure that would sit well with the council, now, wouldn’t it? Or endear myself to your people?’, she snorted then, bringing his stuttering, grovelling mess to a screeching halt, and as she smiled a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes, she could not decide whether he was truly as naive as he appeared to be or whether he merely thought to cover more dishonourable intentions – the latter train of thought, she had to admit, stemmed more from her heart than her head really, ‘Or perhaps you thought, if a foreigner-Queen wasn’t up to the task, a commoner would do just as well?’

At that her king, who had until now paced to and fro, worrying himself away under the grinding pressure of her sarcastic reproof, stopped dead in his tracks and turned around to face her again. She could see it in his face, the realisation hitting him, of what she was implying, that he would still go through with the ritual, just not with her, his wife and queen, at his side – and the insinuation of that seemed to be so shocking and hurtful to him that all he could manage was a choked response.

‘No.’, he said then, all but pressing the little word out through clenched teeth, exhaled in a breath he had not known he had held, feeling the conversation already slipping into dangerous territory; and with his forehead lined with frowns and his eyes solely focused on her he crouched before her then, one of his large hands placed on her neatly folded hands while the other went to her chin to make her look into his eyes, to make her see and feel the words he meant to speak, ‘Listen, Lothíriel, I’ve been faithful to you, always – and that won’t change. But I will not deny that there were other women before you – but, believe me, that is all they are: _before you_.’

And there it was, the one thing that could even touch a princess from the Southern courts: raw, unflinching, deep-felt sincerity. Oh, she had spent too much time and effort on trying to catch the lies she believed he would be spinning; she had not prepared herself for the truth – and she could see that he _was_ telling the truth. She could see it in the way his green eyes burned with sincere openness, she could see it in the way his whole self vibrated with a sense of conviction she had not encountered before. She could tell that he genuinely believed in his own words, more akin to a vow really, and she could already feel herself slipping.

It would be so easy to get lost in the sincerity of his gaze, to fall for the promise that came from his lips, that burned in his eyes, and she realised that she wanted that – more than anything else, she wanted to believe him, to give into him and the easy way-out he offered her. She could feel her heart take flight – and would it have been so wrong to allow herself to do that, to go the easy way, to pretend that his words were all she needed and that nothing she had found in that village mattered? But of course, she didn’t do that, because, of course, it mattered, and even if it had not been wrong to fall for his words, it would have solved nothing, and it would have had her living a lie. _But isn’t living a lie all you’ve ever learned?_ , a voice inside her whispered spitefully then, but she ignored it as she broke her heart’s flight along with its wings.

‘But that woman – _Æ_ _tta_ – wasn’t just any other woman, now, was she?’, she spoke then, pulling her hands out of the warm, comforting grasp of his paw, out into the cold open, lowering her gaze, far away from any promise his eyes might hold, intent on pushing on, fixed on the thought that knowing the truth was more important than how to live with the truth. Of course, she told herself, he might affirm his faithful loyalty to her with every breath he took and all he liked, but it was he himself that had spoken of other women – _women_ , not woman, mind you – and if she knew of one woman who had had his child, it was just as plausible that there were others too. That thought alone was enough to propel her into action and to push her on – even if she were pushing them over the edge.

‘Lothíriel, it’s part of a religious ritual, it’s got nothing to do with pleasure or – ’, he began once more, stuttering away as he rose again, and again he paced across the room, ‘Of course, it won’t be like that for us, if you and I – because you and me – we – I – ’, he stopped again and laughed a humourless laugh at that, clearly flustered, clearly frustrated with himself, clearly aware that he was making a mess of things again rather than explain them to her as he had sought out to do; but he was so busy with himself and his apparent inadequacy that he didn’t have the time or good sense to watch her, because if he had paid attention to her, surely he would have seen the way her breathing quickened, or the way her eyes turned to slits, the way her jaws clenched almost painfully – surely, if he had seen the signs, he would have tucked tail and run before –

‘It was nothing, Lothíriel, it doesn’t matter, it was just – ’

‘SHE’S HAD YOUR CHILD, ÉOMER!’

In the silence that followed unspoken words and thoughts and feelings hung heavy in the air, thickening the atmosphere between them, widening the chasm that had just erupted between them – and both of them dealt with it in a very different way. The king, thoroughly shell-shocked and thrown, seemed to shrink in on himself as he sank down on the bed, having to sit down as he processed the information that had just exploded in his face. The queen, however, having risen with her revelation, seemed to grow taller by the second, and with her head held high and her back straightened, her clenched jaws and hard eyes, she became calm, but not the calm of a candle saved from the wind, but the calm of a lake frozen over in the heart of winter.

And he could see that, as he looked up, as he slowly regained his bearing, as he slowly wormed his way out of his increasingly maddening thoughts. He could tell that there was a shift in the air about her – where before she had seemed to soften up, ready to give in, she now stood as an unyielding opponent. And still, even though he saw the walls of her inner self tower high and mighty, having her appear remote and untouchable, unaffected by anything he might say, he still spoke up to try and make this right, believing that, at long last, he understood her reasoning for bringing this all up, ‘Lothíriel, listen – this doesn’t mean what you think it means. This ritual – things are different here – the ritual doesn’t mean – you don’t understand – ’

‘Oh, I think I understand enough.’, she interjected then, cutting through his attempts at salvaging the situation with the clear chill of appraisal, and he could see that she was watching his every move with eyes intent on catching the slightest slip-up, he could tell that she was looking for ways to point out his failings, ready to zero in on them at the first opportunity, ‘I understand that you fathered a child you didn’t care for.’

‘I didn’t know about that, alright?’, he spat back, jumping up from the bed, and for the first time since she had started to dominate this conversation did his voice rise up again; he was still clearly on the defensive, but he was not so easily reduced to a position of grovelling as it may have seemed at first. Unsurprisingly though, it was the return of that very spark of defiance that pushed her even further on.

‘And that makes it better?!’, she hurled back at him, picking up on his vibe, and perhaps – who knew? – she had re-learned more from him than her aptitude for riding, that some of that old fighting spirit had returned after she had thought to have lost it growing up at court, that perhaps some of his own quick temper had bled into her over the months they had been living together, showing a whole new side to her, a side that craved the fight rather than to internalise her doubts and fears, ‘Did you even care to inquire? Did you even care to find out what happened afterwards? Or did your manly brain simply expel the memories of the act along with the spilt kingly seed?!’

Taken aback by the sheer viciousness of her words, Éomer staggered back for a moment, stunned by the unfamiliar heights of her anger, and for a second there he actually questioned if this right here was really such a good idea. After all, he had never fought with her before – mostly because she just hadn’t seemed the kind of person to care much for fighting – and had no idea if he could bring himself to fight with her. His sister he could fight with, and he had done so often, and even enjoyed it at times, revelling in the cathartic nature of it, but he knew his sister, knew what buttons to push and what lines not to cross – fighting with Éowyn felt safe, healthy even. But with Lothíriel – he didn’t know his wife as well as he might have believed, and this here was uncharted territory, so, perhaps, more caution was the safest course of action here?

‘Lothíriel, please, if you would just listen – ’

‘Why? To listen to your feeble excuses? To defend your carelessness?’, she countered, stepping forward, her anger almost like a magnet pulling her towards him as her pole, invading his comfort zone, and talking herself into a veritable frenzy, she got more and more personal, closer and closer to crossing a line between them they had not crossed before, ‘Are these supposed to be the actions of a king? The words of your House speak: _Ride with honour_ – but where was the honour in that? And to think that the Rohirrim pride themselves in their honesty, their honour – ’

‘Enough, woman! I will not have my honour questioned by a woman whose cultures excels in nothing but lewdness and adultery!’, he bellowed then at last, finally snapping, finally losing his temper, unwilling to listen to her continuous ranting anymore, the unadorned way in which she held up a mirror to his face, scrutinizing his many mistakes and failings, rubbing his nose in it, but even more so that she would dare drag his people into this mess, questioning _their_ honour – it was simply too much, and it would have been too much for anybody, but he wasn’t just anybody, and he gave as good as he got, ‘Oh, believe me, I’m quite familiar with your people’s loose morals. I’m sure your Southern lords and princes have bastards, too – lots of them. So don’t you dare pass judgement on me for failings your people commit tenfold!’

‘Well, I’m glad there is at least some cultural similarity you freely admit to.’, she commented coldly then, or as coldly as she could, because while her voice seemed as hard as steel, it was still shaking with some wild emotion. Anger gnawed away at her; anger at him for acting so carelessly, anger at him for putting them in this situation, anger at _herself_ for putting them in this situation, anger at the words he used to hurt her, anger at the truth she knew hid behind them – but most of all, anger at the way that things had gotten so totally out of control …

Éomer took a deep breath as he closed his eyes, trying to calm down. He had not meant for things to get so out of hand, but somehow she had just known the right buttons to push to hurl him over the edge, and sure enough his quick temper had gotten the better of him again and harsh words had been spoken that now stood like an invisible wall between them. And as he opened his eyes again, he looked upon her and saw the way she stood there, positively tense as a bowstring, eyes cast down and full of unshed tears, cheeks flushed in an anger she desperately clung to as a way of avoiding the pain she felt over all this. No, truly, he had not meant for things to escalate like this, and he knew now what fighting with his wife would feel like; ugly, exhausting, painful – and more importantly, he knew that he never wanted to fight with her like that again.

‘I’m sorry, I should not have said that. I didn’t – ’, he stopped to take a deep breath, trying to find the right words to carry his meaning across, to make it count, to proceed with more caution and sensitivity this time, or at least, as much as he could muster given the way that he was, ‘Listen, Lothíriel, I know you must feel hurt, and I admit, I’m not very good at owning up to my mistakes, but, believe me, I would never willingly do anything to cause you pain. And this child – I promise you, this child will never be a threat to us or to our children, this child will never play a role whatsoever in the line of succession, it – ’

‘But why not?’

‘What?!’

Éomer had not meant to snap at her like that, but he had just been too stunned to really rein in his quick temper in that moment, because, _Béma help him!_ , he had no idea what was going on anymore. Looking at his wife and queen, seeing her standing there, shaking, quietly sobbing, he was too confused to counter anything remotely useful, not understanding the world any longer. At the beginning of their downward-spiralling conversation he had been shocked by her knowing the ugly truth of his past better than he knew it himself, apparently, thinking, fearing that she was mad at him for fathering a child he had never told her about, that she was scared it would take precedence over the children they might have together. But now all the shame and sympathy and feelings of guilt were entirely replaced by a tangled feeling of utmost confusion as he tried to figure out and piece together what was going on in the mind of his crying wife before him.

‘It’s a boy, Éomer.’, she finally explained then with the release of a breath she had not known she had held, and with it all the tension from before seemed to be released as well, as her shoulders sank and her face smoothed out all the lines of worry and stress from before – though it was not so much relaxation that prompted the change in her, it was simply exhaustion, the relinquishment of resistance, the final acceptance that things just had to unfold naturally. She had been the one to choose to bring this potentially all-changing piece of information into their lives and now she had to accept the outcome of it, let it run its course, wherever it might take them, ‘You have a son.’

And that got to him at last.

He had been shocked before, of course, but learning that you had child out there somewhere was one thing, but learning that this child was a son, well, that was something else altogether. The king, feeling the shock of it sink in, sat down on the bed; and he was hit so hard by the implication of that statement, and the possibilities that came with it, his mind, unbidden, jumping from hopeful conclusion to hopeful conclusion – and it made the anguish he felt at having to deny it all make it all the more painful. And what was even worse was the look on his wife’s face; that teary-eyed hope, that desperate thinking that saw chances in all the wrong places – and now, at last, he understood: her tension, her worry, her little angry broken heart, it all made sense now.

In a flash he remembered the awkward conversation they had had all those months ago, about what a bloodied shift might mean for a woman and her king, or all the other talks ever since, every month, each one infused with the same sad, embarrassed confession, and of course, he remembered that day on the ice and to what desperate lengths hope had driven them both. He remembered all of that, and he remembered the words his sister had spoken to him the day he had left for their long march to the Black Gate, that hope could be a dangerous thing too, and in that moment, as he looked at his wife, his eyes softened, softened with all the love and pity, gratitude and anguish he felt for her right then and there. He could see the hope in her eyes, and it was so hard for him not to let it get to him, and he could see the effort, too, that it took for her to feel hopeful at the prospect of this stranger child; and the determination she showed to ignore her own heart breaking at this crazy ray of hope, well, it made his own heart break with all the different colours of love he felt for her in that moment.

‘Don’t you see, Éomer? Don’t you understand the chance – ’

‘No.’

‘But – ’

‘No.’, he countered again then, and this time with more force, his voice almost as hard as steel, but clearly rusting underneath as he beheld her hurt, rejected expression, and that had been one of the reasons why he hadn’t wanted for her to continue this conversation, because he had feared he would disappoint her again, and rightfully so. Naturally, his resistance almost melted away under her sad expression then, and he continued with more sensitivity this time, ‘It’s not that simple, Lothíriel. I can’t understand how you can’t see that – _you_ of all people? By law bastards cannot inherit, no matter the situation.’

‘But you are the king, your word is the law.’

‘In the South, perhaps. Here not even a king can simply worm his way around something like this.’

‘Trust me, even in the South one wouldn’t be able to _simply_ _worm_ their way around _this_.’, she commented sarcastically and for the first time since the beginning of this conversation there was a small smile playing around the corner of his mouth, though he suppressed it again; he knew they weren’t at the end of this discussion, and so he sought out to underline his position on this, ‘I know you’re thinking that this is a solution to our problems, but I’m telling you it’s not. It wouldn’t work, it simply wouldn’t. The implications alone, and not just with my people – think about how this would look, to your father, to the South – ’

‘I know it’s not ideal – ’

‘Not ideal?! Do you really think I would shame myself like that in front of the whole world? Shame you? _Us_?’, he bit his tongue to stop himself from continuing his rant, seeing the way she had flinched at his rapid-fire words, and taking a deep breath, he sought to continue with more calm and grace, ‘Lothíriel, I’m sure you know better than most how this would look: a bastard from a random woman as my heir – even if we could prove that he is – ’, he took another deep breath, ‘I’m a man of honour, but you said it best: there is no honour in that.’, he made a pause to let those words sink in before went on, ‘And even if my people were to accept that, what about you? I’m not going to allow my wife to become a target of mockery or doubt, or to take heat for one of my decisions.’, he emphasised passionately, and he could see by the way her eyes softened that her heart softened too, ‘And what about the rest of the world? What about Gondor, what about your father? Honestly, I would really hate to provoke a feud with my own father-in-law when he demands satisfaction for slighted your honour. And think what this might mean for our trading – ’

The king went on to explain to her in painstaking details the ramifications of that possible decision – as if she didn’t know already what this might mean for them – but she remained gracefully and suspiciously quiet. She would not deny that his passionate plea against her proposal moved her heart more than anything else she had heard him say or do before, and she also understood that there was truth in what he said, but one thing she doubted very, very much. Somehow she just couldn’t see her own father going to war for her. Oh, sure, he would take issue with this, if this secret became known, which it undoubtedly would, and surely he would make a great show of offended propriety, but she knew her father to be far too cunning and calculating than to start a war over something like this and to risk losing his means of manipulation. Anyway, she knew her father well enough to know that he cared little enough for her as it was, and to think that he would declare open war on behalf of her, well, it was a ridiculous idea.

‘ – and anyway, it’s not necessary, we will have lots of children – ’

‘And how would you know that? How?’, she countered then, after his endless explanation had ended in this preposterously naive statement and effectively pulled her out of her own increasingly darkening thoughts, and now she threw her whole self into convincing him of the necessity of her idea once again, ‘We have tried, haven’t we? Still nothing!’

‘Lothíriel, we have time yet, time enough for that, we – ’

‘How much time do you think we have? Do you think the council is the only one growing impatient?’, she countered almost out of breath, ready to talk herself into another frenzy, incapable or unwilling in her riled-up state of mind to understand any position other than her own, ‘Sure, things might be different, if you weren’t the last of your House, but your are – time is of the essence!’

‘Would you stop being so dramatic? I’m not the last of my House, my sister – ’

‘ – is a woman marrying into a foreign Southern House. Yes, I’m sure the council is thrilled at that outcome.’, she commented dryly, scoffing at the simple-minded nature of his line of thinking, faintly aware of the unfairness of her harsh reaction, but nonetheless she pushed on to move forward, single-mindedly focused on the idea that her crazy plan was worth the risk and the pain it left in its wake, and there she was again, grasping at straws, just like she had that day on the ice, ‘Don’t be naive, Éomer, you _are_ the last of your House and line – so what do you think will happen without an heir? If – _Ulmo, spare us_ – something might happen to you? Would you have your country fall into chaos again? Your lands and your people are still recovering – what do you think a civil war would do to the Riddermark?’

‘Will you stop it already?!’, he threw in, trying to bring a stop to her increasingly pessimistic rant, though he would lie if he protested that the exact same thoughts hadn’t crossed his mind now and again too, but no, he wouldn’t allow her words to take him down that path of thinking now, he was determined to stay positive, determined not to give in to the false hope she clung to, ‘You keep talking about bleak possibilities and futures that might never come to pass – now what about the things that are likely to happen? You and I are both young and we have time yet, and there is nothing in our family history that would suggest anything other than a great number of healthy children. I mean, your own mother – ’

‘My mother – ’, she snapped then with wide-eyed fury, breathing hard and heavily, and he instantly understood that he had crossed a line there by mentioning her mother and for a moment he wondered how high the waves of her wrath could truly rage. The queen, for her part, took a deep breath to calm herself down again, and when she continued her voice was even again and the sea had calmed down once more.

‘I’m not my mother and her lot in life need not be my own.’, she answered brusquely, intent on directing the course of conversation away from her mother, because, already, she felt her chest constrict painfully at the sad, frightful double-meaning of her statement – because even if she were to be blessed, like her mother had been, with many children, would it then follow that she would be cursed with it as well, as her mother had been, never to witness those children to grow into adulthood?

‘I know it’s a hard choice we are facing, but bitter choices are the leader’s prerogative.’, she continued then, this time with a more consoling tone, feeling as though at last she had managed to slowly sway him to her side in this, even if he still looked positively sceptical, with his green eyes reading the sincerity in her face, ‘Now, this might bring risks of its own with it, but at least these are risks we can control. If we wait and do nothing, this uncertainty will breed doubt and chaos; but certainty – certainty will give way to stability and growth, and this … this we desperately need.’

‘Even if I were to entertain your idea – the council would never just accept a bastard as a legitimate heir – ’

‘No? A son born of their own king, a boy born and bred of the Riddermark? Do you mean to say the council would reject him – in favour of what?’, she countered then with a half-sceptical, half-amused smile, a smile, however, that didn’t quite reach her eyes or her heart, and they both knew what she chose not to say but clearly thought, what he could clearly read in her eyes – that the council would not risk the safety and stability of the Mark for the sake of … _the barren_ _womb_ _of a foreign mare_. And even if Éomer had wanted to say something against the unforgiving way she thought of herself, to protest against the cruel perception she had of the way the council saw her, he could not have done so, because he would be lying if he said that the council had not put pressure on her, on them, ever since they had been married, and so he stayed quite, not yet ready to agree with her, but too exhausted and overwhelmed to disagree any longer, ‘I’m starting to believe you don’t know your own people half as well as you think.’

‘You would really do this? Accept another woman’s child to be my heir?’, he asked then, quietly, cautiously, his keen green eyes watching her intently, intent on catching even the slightest reaction she might have that would betray her true feelings, but she would give him nothing, nothing but the truth.

‘Accept him? I think I can do better than that.’, she answered slowly then, a tired smile playing around the corners of her mouth, a smile he couldn’t quite place, but the meaning of her words was unmistakable, as she had practically insinuated that she herself would be a mother to this child regardless of his origin, and the idea seemed to strange to him, so unnatural in its selflessness, so untypical for what he had come to believe of Southerners and their Southern ways that it stunned him into a confusion he could not quite shake.

‘Why are you doing this?’, he asked then, leaning forward, forehead lined in frowns, eyes turned to slits, eyes that tried to figure out a mystery he had thought he had figured out a long time ago, ‘I know why you think we should be doing this, why you think it’s a good idea for the Mark and its people – you explained that to me quite … quite _fully_. But why are _you_ doing this? Why would you risk your honour and your position for a gamble that might not even pay off?’

‘Because I am Queen. I’m not just your wife, and my responsibility is not just to you, but to your – to _our_ people.’, she answered after a while then, and when she did, her voice was trembling, and the conviction with which she said those words, with which she claimed his people as theirs, well, it would have been enough to soften the heart of the hardest warrior, but with her he was no warrior any longer and his heart had long been claimed by her, and he was sure that she could see that truth echo in the way his eyes softened as they looked at her, though she was not ready yet to acknowledge it, and instead she went on, determined, ‘That is what makes a leader great – the sacrifices that are made and the willingness to make them.’

Nodding slowly, in the air of a fragile balance where neither one fully agreed or disagreed with each other, the king then rose from the bed and with two big steps walked over to her to stand before her, gently cradling her face in his hands. There was hardly any space left between, because now there was hardly anything left unsaid between them, except one thing, perhaps, and that didn’t need to be said out loud right now, as that feeling was between them now, unspoken but undoubtedly felt, and when he was sure that she could read it in his eyes, he spoke, ‘I can see now why my sister chose you as my wife.’, he said with quiet intensity, eyes burning with that deep emotion none of them had the courage yet to claim out loud, and as the king lowered his head to brush his lips against the lips of his queen, he whispered again, one last time before he sealed it with a long and loving kiss, ‘A great king is indeed in need of a great queen.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FUN FACT #1: Sorry again for the delay. But I just couldn't finish that chapter yesterday ... I just had a real tough week and it felt like I was working two full-time jobs - and writing never feels good when it feels like a job, just kills my muse.
> 
> FUN FACT #2: This chapter was hard. Writing dialogue is tough for me. But it worked out fine, I guess?
> 
> FUN FACT #3: Saelwen is a character that will be important for the Éowyn-Faramir-story I'm intending to write ... one day - so, I thought, why not at least mention her here already?
> 
> FUN FACT #4: Next chapter - Beltane. All turned on already? ^_^


End file.
